Ink Stains
by Dreams2Paper11
Summary: In which Harry was sealed inside Tom Riddle's diary during his second year and tossed into another world, upon where he finds himself in Bruce Banner's lonely hands. With the life Banner leads, he supposes that he shouldn't be surprised by this "Harry Potter" kid somehow sealed in a "magical" diary. Besides, what's better than having a friend that can fit in your pocket? NO SLASH.
1. Prologue

**AN: So after combing the Avengers/Harry Potter crossover archive, I've decided to toss my own two cents in. I love "Master of Death" fics just as much as the next girl, but I want to add a new spice to the pot. Beware-this is unbeta'ed. **

**KEY:**

_(italics inside parenthesizes equals Harry's inner reflections, past thoughts, feelings, memories, etc.)_

_**Bold italics is the dialogue of whoever is inside the diary. **_

_Plain italics are the writings of someone outside the diary._

_'Italics in apostrophe's are thoughts.'_

_*_**EDIT 8/12/2013: Apparently, an anonymous reviewer (quite rudely) implied that I had lied when I said this is not slash. I'd like to explain that I WILL NEVER EVER EVER WRITE SLASH. I do not like it, I do not read it. About Harry and Tom's relationship- I believe Harry to be a neglected little boy, who, because of Dudley, never had any friends. Therefore, of course he would be excited to make a friend. And like any good friend, he wants to "hang out" with him often. I apologize if this chapter resembled slash, but next time, please PM me or phrase your review a little bit nicer. I've edited some of this chapter to sort out the supposed "slashy-ness."**

**.**

**Ink Stains: Prologue**

**.**

He should have known better.

_(He knows that now, but still, the thought nags him like a persistent thorn in his side, digging ever deeper, and unable to be pulled away.)_

He should have known from the start that he couldn't trust Tom. He should have thrown the innocuous little black book into the wastebasket the moment he'd seen it nestled in his newly bought cauldron, felt its magic curl around him, so alluring and addictive and wonderful—

_**("Hello Harry Potter. It's nice to meet you. My name is Tom.")**_

There were a lot of things young, naïve Harry _should_ have done.

But the fact is, he didn't do them, and if he _had_ done them, then his life would have taken a very different turn.

**.**

**.**

When Harry found the book, he was puzzled. He hadn't bought it. He was sure of it. Yet the thing, though slightly battered around the edges and bearing a few scuff marks here and there across its black surface, looked polished and well taken care of, like a treasured storybook from someone's childhood.

Except that it was too thick to be a storybook, and mysteriously blank—every single one of its crème-yellow parchment pages unstained and unmarred.

_(He thinks upon this memory with a mix of bitterness and hurt betrayal.)_

He still remembers the way he had then seen the initials—T.M.R.—and guessed it to be someone's diary. He'd decided to leave it alone, then. It wasn't his property. Even though it seemed blank, it might contain passages of secret confessions written in some sort of invisible ink, or maybe hidden by a charm. It wasn't his business. He had no right to intrude on a person's deepest feelings. The Dursleys' had taught him that well—never _ever_ touch something that isn't your own.

_(When he looks back, however, he can pinpoint exactly when he'd started obsessing over it, worrying about it—was it safe? Had someone found it?—until it was a constant shadow lurking in the back of his mind, always there, hovering in the distance, like a constant buzz in his ears.)_

_(In the end, he blames his curiosity.)_

He lasted the rest of the summer holiday at the Weasley's. He kept it hidden in the bottom of his trunk, out of sight, never out of mind. Due to the continual presence of at least one red-haired individual flocking him, he managed to stay his hand. There was never a moment to spare to actually sit down and crack it open.

So the sudden privacy of Hogwarts jammed a foot in the door holding back the tide, cracked it open, nudged it wider, wider—

He wrote one sentence in the black diary, testing. _(Magic was ever so wonderful to him, afterall, and he hadn't had the time to learn all the various charms that might be applied to books.)_

And then the diary wrote back.

**.**

**.**

_Tom, I don't know what's going on. Everyone is accusing me of being the Heir of Slytherin. I know I'm not. I can't be._

_**Your handwriting is shaky, Harry. Are you upset?**_

_No, I'm fine, I just—I don't understand Ron and Hermione. They say I haven't been myself lately. They say I'm pale and sickly._

_**Maybe they suspect you also.**_

_But they're my friends! They would trust me! Right?_

_**I've met many people who claimed to be my friend, but only wished to extort my influence. Perhaps, a likewise case?**_

_But they're not like that! They can't be! They're the first friends I've ever had!_

_… **What was that? Are you crying?**_

_I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—it just rolled down my cheek and fell— Tom? _

_Tom? I'm sorry, are you okay?_

_Tom!_

_**I'm fine… better than fine. **_

_Why didn't you respond?_

_**Hush, Harry. Do not fret. Go and rest. It will be all right. **_

_How do you know?_

_**Well, I suppose you'll have to trust me. Do you trust me, Harry?**_

_Of course. You're my best friend._

_**Good. That's all I'll ever ask.**_

**.**

**.**

It sickens him how easily he fell into the gilded cage, practically locked himself in and threw away the key for Tom. All for Tom. Just like always.

He reflects, to himself, why he was so shocked and hurt when one day, Tom stepped right out of the page, and smiled as he accepted Harry's eager, friendly hug. Tom was stiff, his arms locked to his sides. Harry loosened his hold, backed away in confusion, and only then did Tom smile.

It was not a kind smile.

Tom moved forward with the fluid grace of a snake and shot out a long limb, ignoring Harry's startled squeak of surprise, his long fingers digging into Harry's thin upper arms painfully.

And suddenly, Harry was spun around, forced towards the diary- Tom murmured a long, sibilant string of magical words- and Harry was, for some reason, _falling, _and was that ink splattering all around him?-

****Harry realizes too late what Tom has done. Tom was never his friend, never even remotely cared, and certainly never felt an ounce of regret for forcing Harry inside the diary in his place.

**.**

**.**

The worst part—Tom still talked to him.

Taunts, ridicules, vicious and stinging, ones that laid him bare and made him beg for Tom to stop, and then, later, soft apologies. _("I'm sorry, Harry, I wasn't myself. Yes, I'm working to get you out. Just hold on a little longer for me. How are you holding up?")_

_(And somehow, every time that hand was extended to him, he would cling to it shamefully, converse with Tom for hours; Tom freed, Harry trapped. He was so desperate for human contact, for a friend. And Tom would write to him, coax him into replying, until the elder boy was strengthened once more, sated and content with toying with Harry's mind, and did not need him. Harry was just an amusing toy to dust off and pull out when Tom was bored. And Harry would be alone again, until the next time Tom was weak and required Harry to pour out his heart once more.)_

Harry still remembers how awful that time was.

Tom told him that he'd entered politics, that he was starting up his movement once again under a different guise, through a sneaky political takeover. Harry had realized the genius of Tom's plan as the elder boy explained it to him in excruciating detail, taking delight in Harry's futile, anguished pleadings. And just as Harry suspected, Tom quickly rose through the ranks as years and years _(tortuously slow years of unending **nothingness) **_passed by.

The last time Tom writes to him, he tells Harry that he is now the Minister of Magic, the youngest one ever at only twenty-three years old. Harry listens attentively, captivated, because it's been months since Tom's last entry, and he is so lonely, so afraid of being forgotten.

_**Will you let me out now, Tom?**_

A pause. Harry waits. If he had a heartbeat, he's sure it would have been pounding erratically.

_No, Harry. I won't. I'm strong enough, now. I don't need to feed off you anymore._

He is horribly numb. Somehow, he thinks, he has suspected this would happen all along.

_**Are you going to kill me, then?**_

Another heart-stopping pause. It feels like ages until he senses the caress of a sharpened quill brushing his pages, leaving an elegant script of wet ink behind. He fastens onto the words hungrily. Can he be killed? Is there something to kill? Harry barely even _exists_ as it is.

_Not quite, Harry. I did promise you everything would be all right, didn't I? Lord Voldemort always keeps his promises._

_**All right for you, or all right for me? **_

If he imagines hard enough, he can almost hear Tom's soft little appreciative chuckles at his sarcasm.

_I'm afraid I'm going to have to send you away. Permanently._

He writes back almost immediately, drawing the ink from the surface of the page and re-molding it into his own messy handwriting.

_**What are you planning?**_

_I've found a new spell, Harry, in my research._

Harry remembers how obsessed Tom is with discovering the secrets and intricacies of magic, especially the darkest ones, and feels a twinge of worry.

_One that I'm, admittedly, quite curious about. Oh, I know what it does—were you aware of the existence of alternate worlds?_

_**I am now.**_

_Well, you, to put it bluntly, are going to be my test-drive. I'm going to send you to another world. I'm thinking that it could be a suitable punishment for my enemies—can you imagine anything worse than being torn from your home, your family, your **world, **_(Here, Tom's quill presses hard into the page in his excitement)_ and thrown into an entirely different universe?_

The evident sadism disturbs him. Harry begs one last time.

_**Tom, please.**_

_Sorry Harry, but you're a liability, and you've outlived your use. I can't risk anyone finding you, discovering all my- our, I suppose- secrets. It's already almost happened three times. I won't let my empire be torn down because of you, and I've already made up my mind. I suppose I owe everything to you, so many sincere thanks. And now, we permanently part ways. _

And then Harry feels the cover of the diary being closed, and he is picked up, moved, carried and set down once again. He wishes he could voice his fear when he feels the captivating rush of Tom's powerful, addictive magic sweep over him, taking him away, far, far, away, away from _Tom_ and Harry isn't quite sure how to deal with that, because Tom has been his world for such a long time that his absence frightens him.

The spine of the diary slams onto something hard, and everything is so silent, so empty. Harry is alone once again.

In his head, Harry screams silently.

**.**

**.**

**AN: IN CASE ANYONE MISSES THIS IN THE FIRST AN-This is not slash! **

**Reviews equal love. Love equals inspiration and happiness. Who doesn't want that?**


	2. Ink Trails and Sleeping Pills

**AN: Holy Arctic Seal Babies. I love you guys. Thank you for the wonderful responses! (And to all the silent people who have added this to their alerts/favorites, I still love you too.) Your warm reviews overwhelmed me, seriously. I thought this was a dumb little fic that no one would like. It's cool to see that I was wrong. :)**

**Coldblue: I'm working on new chapters of Haunted Memories and Misconceptions simultaneously. They're both almost complete. Give me some breathing room. I'm still in school and studying for finals, so I'm running on coffee and more than a bit frazzled at the moment. **

**Beware: This is unbeta-ed!**

**I HIGHLY SUGGEST LISTENING TO "ONLY A MEMORY" BY ICON FOR HIRE! It fits this story. :-) **

**Chapter 1**

**.**

**Harry**

**.**

Harry is numb.

The smoky feel of soft, half-incorporeal pages lightly touching his flanks has long since assumed the feeling of blank nothingness. He has become unaware of their presence. They only serve to remind him of his prison, enfolding around him lovingly, like a warm embrace, one that he can never escape from.

The void that he floats in, weightless, is a dull shade of white-ish gray, with mottled blobs and ribbons of slick ink curling artfully through the fog, like hair under water. There is no up, no down, no left or right. There is no air to breathe or ground to walk upon. He is simply _there_.

There is no physical manifestation of his body.

(That was probably the most excruciating thing about the whole ordeal at first.)

It is the most _terrifying_ feeling to wiggle your arms and legs only to discover that they simply do not exist.

It is so silent. He used to attempt to hum, to sing, but there is no sound _(no lips to shape the hum, no vocal cords to vibrate, no lungs to inhale and release)_ and the only noises are in his head.

_(But a thick, mind-dulling blanket has fallen over his cloudy mind, muting it, softening it, and over the decades he has found that he does not quite remember the pitch of the croon that Hedwig used to emit when stroked, or the exact shade of Ron's fiery hair, the sound of Hermione's nags, the feel of magic flowing through his body.)_

He does not sleep, which, in a way, is simultaneously a blessing and a curse. He cannot have nightmares, but he cannot avoid the dull agony of waiting for nothing to happen either.

Time has no concept. Sometimes, he sort of falls into a daze, in which everything is like liquid, flowing and smooth and quiet and he simply waits, but other times, the blanket is lighter, not as suffocating, and he thinks furiously and plots and schemes.

Decades after Tom _(simply remembering the name makes him hurt) _discarded him, the nothingness presses in on him too tightly, as it sometimes does, too constricting, and he panics, mentally flailing, screaming a scream that does not exist.

The lifeless stray ink blots, winding sluggishly around his ankles like liquid chains, suddenly tighten, and though he does not feel them, does not feel it, he _knows _they are tugging him away, and the dreary white void around him darkens to smoky gray as if he is falling into a yawning dark chasm, and then—

"—_very good Tom, fifteen points to Slytherin—"_

"—_want an essay on the rise and fall of the dark arts by Monday—"_

"—_I am the King Of Slytherin, Abraxas, he'll fold to me—"_

"—_Kill the Mudblood—"_

"—_Freak—"_

"—_Yes Masssssster—"_

"—_hung his rabbit from the rafters—"_

He is not watching snippets of scenes, not hearing any sounds, but somehow, the memories burn themselves into his mind, like they're his own experiences, before Tom, before the diary, and he just _knows_ they happened.

He realizes that he's found Tom's imprints, after all these long years, and feels a savage joy, because knowing an enemy is knowing his weaknesses. But all too quickly the atmosphere lightens once more, and the undulating blobs of ink are docile and languid again.

Calling up Tom's fading memories from the bowels of the diary's pages is hard, mentally taxing, even, so Harry cannot do it as often as he would like to.

**.**

**.**

Harry remembers with vivid clarity the first time someone opened the diary after Tom cast him out.

Because the first time in Merlin knows _how_ long, he _feels_.

He feels the touch of youthful, slender fingers gripping his cover, feels them turning him over, opening him wide, and the sensations are like bombs exploding all over his body, awakening his blocked nerves, and he wishes he could scream from the simple exhilaration of human contact.

He wishes desperately that he could cry.

The fingers flip his pages, buffeting him like a boat on choppy seas, and somehow, the void shifts backwards, so that, if he assumes correctly, he is looking at what might be considered _up._

The floating dribbles of ink surge above him, to the imagined sky of the white-ish void, and suddenly they split, bleeding into small little groups, taking shape, etching themselves in sharp movements as they solidify, scrawling across the sky—

_1953, March 3_

_Dear Diary, I found you in a dusty old used bookstore. Can you believe that? Who would give away such an authentic-looking diary? I can't wait to show Margaret, she collects these sort of things, you know, and oh, she'll be so jealous!_

He stares, and knows that if he had a voice, he would be speechless. It has been so long, _so long, _since anyone has written in him—in fact, no one has written in him since Tom—that he finds himself at a sudden loss of what to do.

The person—his savior—does not contribute anything else, so he freaks, and a fleeting phantom of instinct overtakes him, and he is mentally reaching up, grasping the words, plucking them right out of the sky. He has no hands to feel, but he senses each letter's solidness, its thickness and weight. The delicate arches and loops lose their rigidity, melting to ink, and, still following the memory, he dips his mind's eye into the pooling ink—

–and writes, picturing a finger dipped in the substance, _(like black, rotten blood),_ trailing across the void's roof—

**_Hello. My name is Harry Potter. What is yours?_**

… He is too late. The cover has already slammed, he feels himself being shoved to the side, and the thrill of sensations fade and the letters he has painted in ink-bloodied invisible hands dissolve, falling slowly, gracefully, joining the other blots of ink—

He falls into a shocked, disappointed numbness once again.

No one writes in him for a while after that.

The aftershock of disappointment is so great, so drowning, _(So close I was so close Why is this happening to me why why why) _that he lets himself sink down, deep into the abyss, where he remembers Tom. The blanket returns, heavier than ever, yet this time, he does not fight it. Awareness is too painful, too harmful. He barely bothers to make contact, and only when the new owner's entries are extremely interesting. But they usually get rid of him the moment after.

It stays that way for decades.**  
**

**Calcutta, India, 2013**

**Bruce**

**.**

The worst thing about Calcutta, Bruce thinks irritably, is the humidity. He removes his glasses carefully, rubbing away the grease that slicks the bridge of his nose with a grimace. It's been a few days since his last shower, and he feels utterly grimy. His skin shines with perspiration, mixing with the smudges of dirt. He thinks he looks like a cat that's been dragged through a mud puddle and left out to dry.

He sighs, adjusts his glasses, and lies back on his mat, staring wearily at the thatched clay roof over his head. He's been occupying this cramped little single-cell house for the last few days, and his paranoia is stirring once again, tapping its anxious fingers against his common sense, which firmly insists that he's fine. There's no possible way that he could have been followed, not in this sprawling mess of a city, right?

_'Wrong,' _he thinks bitterly, thinking of last month's fiasco, and turns over, punching his balled up jacket to form it into a more suitable pillow.

He is tired.

Bags, puce and haunting, cling to his lower lids, screaming his lack of sleep. He's been having nightmares again; the kind that makes him jackknife to a sitting position in the middle of the night, yelling his lungs hoarse.

_(Flashes of green, rippling muscles, veins grotesquely bulging underneath the emerald skin, stupid glaring eyes, flexing fingers popping a larynx box with the ease of snapping a twig.)_

He flinches, and his hand wanders to the little bottle of sleep medication that he'd (guiltily) stolen a few days ago, cradled securely in a small pocket sewn onto his bag. He shouldn't take sleep meds, they make him slow and drowsy, and that is the one thing he does _not_ need to be in the middle of an emergency. And really, he hadn't wanted to take it, but the dreams were so awful, so _realistic, _that he'd swiped them and dropped them in his satchel before he'd even taken the time to think through his actions. This is what sleeplessness does to him; it makes him reckless, careless, and he cannot have that, because all it takes is one mistake to end up in a submersion tank again—

He hurriedly unscrews the cap with shaking fingers and pops a pill, swallowing it dry.

Even with the artificial drowsiness brought on by the medicine, he lies awake for hours, listening to the buzz of insects and city nightlife, the pounding of feet on dirt-packed roads, the raucous laughter of family and relatives.

In the room next to him, through the thin walls, he hears carefree conversation, as two travelers swap stories—good memories, great food, the people they've met on the road…

His heart pulses in his chest, diffusing a slow poison through his body, an achy sting that settles in his ribcage. He catches the stray, horrible thought _(I am alone)_ and tightly clamps it down, tossing lock after lock over the traitorous, sad little muse.

Because honestly, the last thing he needs is more depression.

**.**

**Three days later**

**.**

He really needs to shave.

He fingers the rough, dark spread of stubble that stains his chin and cheeks and frowns, fishing in his satchel for the bottle of cheap shaving cream and his old razor. The blade is in desperate need of a new head, and often does more harm than good to his skin, as evidenced by the healing cuts that pockmark his face, but he does not feel like wasting the precious money to buy a new one.

He gathers his things and pays his daily rent to the withered hag who owns his apartment on his way out, in search of a bottle of water, which he can use to whip up the lather. Maybe he'll find a public bathroom somewhere in the city, wash his face in the sink—

A small, gaudy shop catches his eye. For some reason he can't explain, he finds himself slowing down, peering closer through his dirtied lenses. The shop is small, precariously constructed of stiff boards with various brightly colored cloths thrown over it, and sandwiched between two high rise, filthy buildings. It flashy colors—are those towels?—are like a splash of vibrant life among the tans and browns of the muddied complexes that crowd the narrow street.

He hasn't been down this way of the street, yet, he reflects, and then acidly thinks, '_Why not make some good memories for a change?'_

He enters the little shack on a whim, brushing aside the thick bead curtain that acts as a door and stooping to fit through the small door.

Clutter. Lots of old junk almost positively bursting off the shabby shelves that cram the store. Faded colors, ragged blankets, half-filled water bottles, small dolls missing eyes or fingers, or, in the case of a pale hairless doll, a nose, which creeps Bruce out immensely, so he looks away.

Still though, the knickknacks are interesting, so he maneuvers his way carefully through the thick shelves, occasionally picking up a random object and turning it over his dirt-lined palms. From the corner of his peripheral vision, he sees a subtle shift of movement and goes on alert, discreetly eyeing the shop owner. The woman sitting on the tiny stool is old, weathered, with deep lines carved into her tan skin, nearly hiding her dark eyes in the folds. Her nose is strong and hooked, and her dark brows contrast oddly with the pepper-streaked frizzy black hair tightly bound back. She stares at him solemnly. Bruce notes how she seems like another broken doll in the shop. If he couldn't see the slight rise and fall of her chest, he would have assumed her to be a life-sized toy.

He turns back to the shelves, absently trailing his hands along the sad toys. He wonders idly who they must have belonged to before, their stories, their memories, and his hand settles wistfully on a small pile. He sighs, wondering if their story is as sad and pathetic as his is, and then flinches as the tiny movement dislodges the bottom object, sending the whole jumble clattering to the earthen floor.

He kneels immediately, apologizing to the shopkeeper—still watching him—and scoops them up in his arms, intending to reorganize them in their proper place.

Soft pages brush his skin. He pauses and looks at the heap. There is a small black leather book, poking out from underneath a doll's plastic outstretched arm.

Maybe it is the prospect of a story to fill his thoughts, distract him from his daily life, but he shifts the delicate thing to his right hand and restores everything else back to their place, his curious gaze never leaving the black object.

It is obviously quite old, scuffed and dirty and the pages hold a little ripple in them that signifies an encounter with water before. He trails a finger over the black cover. It's leather. It must be. Either that or it's a very convincing fake, but either way, despite its battered state, it's rather elegant.

He flips it open using his thumb, and frowns at the distinct lack of words. The sheets are yellowed and heavy. He rubs one between his fingers. Parchment. Strange. He didn't know they still used parchment like this in bookmaking.

_'Not a book_,' he corrects himself. '_A journal.'_

He fans through the rest of the mysteriously blank pages, finding not a single blemish. He flips it over—

And finds the embossed initials T.M.R.

**.**

**.**

**AN: DO NOT WHINE! I can hear you! I'll try to update quickly, goshdangit, you hungry little stalkers!**

**Also, my butt hurts really bad from sitting in my uncomfortable wooden desk chair for HOURS just to write this for you guys. This chapter represents the sum of my day's effort. Read it carefully. **

**(By the way, did anyone catch the little Voldemort reference I threw in? It doesn't matter to the actual story, I just did it for kicks. It's in Bruce's POV.)**

**Review!**


	3. Contact

**AN: Thank you everyone for the kind responses. Sorry for the wait. I had to push through finals. Ugh. But the good news is, school's out, and my freshman year is officially DONE! Hallelujah! Somebody break out the sparkling juice and toast glasses!**

**Oh, and to those who missed it: The Voldemort reference last chapter was the pale nose-less doll mentioned in the Bruce-store scene.**

**Enjoy.**

**IMPORTANT: If you want to get a good visual of what inside the diary looks like, search Aly and Aj's music video for "Potential Break-upp Song." It's an old song, but the beginning sequence is almost exactly how I envision it.**

**KEY: **

_**Person inside diary.**_

_Person writing in diary._

_'Thoughts blah blah blah look at me I'm so smart.'_

_(Text in perenthesis equals snippets of thoughts, memories, feelings.)_

**.**

**Bruce**

**.**

Bruce hadn't thought that a nonliving item could give him such a headache.

He'd paid a pathetically small sum of money for the journal. Perhaps the woman didn't know its possible value. Such an old, authentic item might be able to fetch a pretty price somewhere—if only Bruce could unveil its hidden messages.

He's certain that it contains writings. It has to. It's inconceivable that a weathered, handsome journal like that couldn't have been written in at some point in its existence. The curious initials T.M.R. stand as proof of ownership. He can't believe that someone could buy that journal and never bother to jot something down on its quaint parchment pages.

Bruce tries all the methods he knows to reveal secret ink. Lemon juice, grape juice concentrate, heat, but nothing works. All he succeeds in doing is staining its pages.

Until a day later, when he picks up the diary once again, and discovers that all the substances he'd used, the ones that had left ugly stains on the first page, had mysteriously vanished.

**.**

**.**

Harry is drifting.

This is the numbest he's ever been, the deepest he's ever let himself sink into Tom's shadowy recollections. If he had eyes, they would be half-lidded in bliss, as information sinks into his brain, filling him to the brim with stolen memories. It is a glorious, addicting habit.

_(Somewhere, entrenched in his groggy consciousness, he dreads the moment when he reaches the limit of Tom's memories.) _

He is learning quite a lot, he admits.

New techniques, branches of magic so steeped in darkness that his consciousness ripples in fear as it absorbs the information eagerly like a sponge. Manipulation tactics, charming smiles and wicked power plays, witty sarcasm and cutting remarks.

The untainted part of him, the _Harry, _is extremely content that he was never sorted into Slytherin. He wouldn't have lasted a week.

The gloomy void's panic-inducing claustrophobia has faded slightly, like a crushing weight on his chest that has been eased ever so little over the passage of time. There are still moments when he feels like incorporeal walls are pressing in on him, senses the invisible pages of parchment hedging him in, and he floats and screams in his head until he loses his willpower and falls down once again into Tom's encroaching imprints. But the distance between those episodes expands all the time. Harry adjusts more quickly to the panic attacks. He is determined to make himself stronger, purify his will of iron into one of steel.

_(Because one day, he'll find his way home, and he'll make Tom Riddle pay, and he will hurt him so badly, trap him in the diary and gloat and taunt him every single day for the rest of his life—)_

From the indiscernible ceiling of the never-ending void, very high up, where the atmosphere is still white-gray and pure, something bleeds across the sky. Harry senses it immediately as it violates his domain, and just as a person easily recognizes loved ones, he knows the substance is not ink.

_How curious, _he thinks sluggishly _(because the blanket is heavy on him, peacefully muffling his thoughts). _

Over the years, he's seen tears, orange juice, water, even _blood_—

_(now hadn't that been a delightful exchange)—_

—but he has never seen _grape juice concentrate_ before.

Tom's memories are still lazily broadcasting into his head, but he slows them for a moment so that he can summon some conscious brainpower, wondering if he should bother to form a feeble reply. The last attempt at making contact had been disastrous. He'd carelessly forgotten that some people might be _mildly_ put off by a replying diary. The last person he'd talked to—a boy, he believed, named Henry, thirteen years old, quite polite unless he was raging about his simply _insufferable _sister—had freaked out, sparing enough time to inform Harry that he was obviously a demonically-possessed book before slamming him shut, getting rid of him the very next day.

That was the taxing problem that Harry encountered _every single time. _

They never stuck around.

They were certainly smarter than him, Harry had once thought wryly. Honestly. Was he the only one who'd trusted so easily _(so foolishly) _and quite literally sold his soul to the devil? Or maybe Tom had been witty and charming and charismatic where Harry was stupid, bumbling and awkward, easily capturing him and drawing him in like a fly in a spiderweb.

Harry watches the liquid sink nearer to him, forming quivering little blots and rippling ribbons of a dark, purple-tinted substance, becoming aware of gentle hands lightly touching one of his pages as a soaked brush sweeps softly over its surface. He basks in the contact, indecisive, as the liquid spirals closer, tantalizingly settling around his consciousness like a scarf for his nonexistent shoulders.

More brushstrokes. More liquid. Time passes. The falling substance changes at some point to lemon juice, making him remember the taste of cold lemonade on a hot summer day. He does not reply.

_'Why bother?'_ he thinks. '_The person will only leave. And even if they did stay, they would grow old and die at some point, and I'd be alone all over again, but it would be much harder because I would have to acclimate to being by myself once more.'_

He nestles himself into the dark abyss, pulling Tom's memories around him like a safety blanket, and lets awareness slide away.

**.**

**.**

Time passes.

Harry entertains himself by going over some of Tom's last memories before the sociopath was stored inside the diary. He brands the names of the dark spells, their incantations, on his heart, and imagines himself a body, going though the correct wand motions in his mind's eye.

When he tires of that, he plays his "One Day" Game. It started some decades after he'd been imprisoned, shaped by sheer, excruciating boredom.

_(One day someone will pull me out of the diary.)_

_(One day I'll find a spell that will take me back to my dimension.)_

_(One day when I'm out of the diary, I'll teach myself how to fly.)_

_(One day I'll eat so many triple-chocolate brownies that I won't be able to eat for weeks.)_

(The topic varies greatly, according to his moods.)

His new statement is: _One day I'll talk to the person in possession of my diary._

Because, after all, it's been a while, and the person still returns to his diary, quite often. The strange liquids have stopped coming. There is no more grape juice concentrate or lemon juice or even brief flares of heat that make his pool of consciousness ripple with fear.

Now… the mystery person draws.

Usually light sketches of complex models. Sometimes diagrams, blueprints, and Harry recognizes, from Tom's imprints, that most of the models are usually strands of DNA. Occasionally, pictures of bacteria, or viruses, make their way onto his pages. Harry learns that the person prefers to write with ink pens, which he is thankful for. Pencil lead forms a distasteful, semi-solid substance that sinks heavily through the gray void, like tiny rocks.

He lets the person keep his or her drawings, which takes considerable conscious willpower. It is the diary's nature to suck up the ink, like a dehydrated man craves water, and he must form a block with his mind to keep them from sinking into the pages. It prevents him from sinking too deeply into the haze of Tom's memories.

He knows the user is intrigued, by the hesitant way he/she first added their notes to the pages. He can almost predict the question: '_Where did the stains from the grape juice go?'_

From the intricate diagrams, he is aware that the person must be a scientist of same nature. Scientists are naturally nosy. _Fantastic_. Sometimes, he amuses himself with the thought of attempting to talk to the person. Would he/she recoil, toss him away, like so many others, or reply, intrigued and wanting to know more?

A passage of time occurs. _(Whether it is long or short, Harry cannot tell. Time is just a literary term here.)_

Harry does not realize it, but his habit of falling deep into Tom's shadowy memories is lessening. The snug blanket that fogs his mind is lighter than usual, as more and more sketches and drawings and little tight scrawls of doctor's handwriting fills up his rich pages. It is easier to think. He likes to stare at them, examine them with hungry vision, because the breaks in the mindscape are perfectly welcome.

And, utilizing his clear awareness, he _thinks_.

He thinks to himself: '_What if I took his notes? What if I snatched them right off the page? What would he do?'_

_(And that changes everything.)_

**.**

**Bruce**

**.**

Bruce throws back his head, drains his coffee, and stares at the innocently open journal in front of him.

The innocently-open-_blank-_journal in front of him.

His persistent headache strikes against the walls of his cranium, and he winces, ruefully rubbing a finger along the dirty rim of his thermos that previously held a bountiful amount of coffee.

For the thousandth time, he flips the journal over, checking for the initials stamped into the leather. They're still there. So is the little nick in the corner, from where he accidentally dropped it one morning, as well as the long, thin scratch near the initials, something that was gouged into the leather even before Bruce bought the journal.

What _isn't_ there, however, are his _pages_ and _pages_ of notes and diagrams.

He picks it up, flips the pages frontward and backward, wondering if it was possibly one of those magician's tools, where the pages appear blank from one direction or angle.

The stains are curiously gone, like before. But now there is something new: the inked _sketches_ are gone.

He sets it back down, kneading his temples in perplexed frustration. His anger pulls at him—it's been a long morning, and his temporary career as a doctor is flourishing so well in the needy parts of town that he can barely catch any rest anymore, and the last thing he needs is for all of his notes and speculations and theories of gamma radiation and his own DNA to vanish.

Something unfolds in the shadow-drenched corner of his mind, the place he futilely avoids, unfurling its green fingers and clawing out, as if to pull itself up from a shadowy gorge. Bruce instantly stills, his eyes snapping shut as he forcibly relaxes every muscle. He is _not _going to transform just because of a stupid journal.

The thing in his head keens in frustration as it retreats, sliding back into its hole. Bruce's breath hitches in his throat as his heartbeat settles.

His eyes flash open in a tired glare at the offending object.

"Please," he croaks in exhaustion, propping his chin in one hand, the other resting on the surface of the empty page, tapping it distractedly with his pen, checkering the paper with dots of black gel ink. "I don't need this. Not today."

That journal had held all of his recent notes. He'd made several breakthroughs in his studies of gamma radiation and his own DNA, ones that held a great deal of promise. Now they were gone, and it would take him weeks to do all the configurations again, and plead access to the small run-down clinic a few streets away.

_'How did they disappear?'_ The question nags him, and he hates it, because for the first time in a long time, he does not understand, and that eats at his scientifically curious mind. He knows the _stains_ disappeared, but he had chalked that up to the parchment's fibrous quality. Maybe stains on this kind of paper faded as they aged. He doesn't know, it isn't like he's some kind of paper expert.

_'Did someone steal it? Replace it with a copy? If so, why would they go through all the trouble of meticulously roughening it and making it exactly identical outwardly, only to leave it blank? And when would they have stolen it?'_ Bruce keeps it on his person nearly twenty-four seven. It fits almost perfectly into his large back pocket on his tattered jeans.

The journal remains stubbornly blank. Bruce grits his teeth and stands, reaching out to close it, when—

He freezes, eyes widening in surprise.

On the page of the journal, the blots of ink from his pen _move. _

Bruce unconsciously leans closer, watching raptly as the dots migrate, conjoining, forming a larger mass of ink in the middle of the page. The puddle of ink splits into trails, which flow, also dividing into smaller streams, creeping across the sheet's expanse like ivy, curling and bending and straightening into characters, into letters, _into words. _

**_Are you looking for your sketches? Were they important?_**

Bruce gapes. Then he lunges forward, picking up the journal, and turns it over in his hands, searching for any kind of device, weighing it in his hands, tapping the cover for imbedded metal.

Something else blooms on the page.

**_There's no need for such treatment. _**

Bruce throws it on the desk, as if it's fire burning his skin. His heart is beating in his throat. He cranes his neck, searching for any cameras attached to the walls, but everything is exposed, bare. He snaps back to the journal, drinking in the script. The handwriting is a semi-neat scribble, endearing and youthful and somehow charming all at once. The tail of the 'y' hooks up, stabbing itself, and the hatches that cross the 't' bleed into the next letter. Each 'r' has no recognizable spine, resembling a candy cane.

Bruce's eyes wander to the pen lying next to the journal. He seats himself slowly and picks up the pen and writes slowly, pressing so hard that his pen tip nearly leaves an indent in the paper.

_How are you doing this? Who are you? _

He sits back and waits. For a moment, the words he has written remain on the page, and his dark brows knit together in confusion. But after a second, the ink seeps into the fibers of the page, _vanishing_.

Another pause, and words surface—crafted from the ink of his pen, Bruce notes—in that same child-like scrawl.

**_Would you believe me if I said magic was real? _**

The sentence doesn't just _appear_. It etches itself across the page letter by letter, as if an invisible hand is guiding an invisible pen. Bruce's breath freezes in shock as he processes the question.

_'Magic? As in witches and wizards and wands and spells and bubbling cauldrons?' _He questions to himself, half-scoffing, half-incredulous that a _book _is responding to him. Maybe he'd been hitting the sleeping pills too hard...

Magic. Real. Oh, _please. _

Somehow, he feels like he's stumbled onto something huge, a game-changer. Just thinking about it worsens the throbbing pain that has settled above his left eye.

Suddenly, he remembers his horrible morning, his empty coffee cup, his ratty clothes and his 'little green problem' and decides that, no _thank_ you, he does not need any other things to deal with, curiosity be forgotten.

"Nope," he says out loud in a flat tone, and he decisively closes the journal, pushing it into his bag, ignoring the niggling in his skull._  
_

Then he picks up his thermos and set out in search of fresh coffee, and some Tylenol.

**.**

**.**

A day later finds him standing on the banks of some muddy river that he doesn't know the name of, holding the journal over the water. He bites his lower lip, his fingers quivering as he squeezes the journal.

He came here to throw it in the river.

He's been here, in the same spot, for ten minutes.

He fixes his gaze on the journal, gritting his teeth. He hasn't opened it since the incident. _(And every second since, his inner scientist has been screaming at him to open it again.) _

The water before him tumbles and flows, its quiet murmur tickling his ears. With all its disturbed silt, he can't tell its depth. His arm shakes. Curiosity and Caution wage war inside his head. He doesn't want to do this, he wants to examine it, take it apart and reveal its secrets (and get his notes back in the process), but he shouldn't. For all he knows, this could be some new government experiment to spy on him.

_(He recognizes how ludicrous that last statement is. He doesn't care.)_

The pages ripple slightly in a light, warm breeze. It's a perfect day. The sun is out, but the temperature is not as agonizingly high as it usually is, and the humidity is not as prevalent. Even so, a bead of sweat forms on his brow, making its way down the tan skin of his neck and disappearing beneath his unbuttoned collar.

Another minutes passes.

He exhales heavily and steps away from the bank. His shoes squelch in the soft mud. He turns and makes his way along the beaten path, a pensive expression on his face as he, at last, comes to a decision.

_This... is too intriguing to pass up_, he thinks, eyeing the journal speculatively. _I've never let fear stop me before. _

And besides. He really wants his notes back. And if getting them back means playing along with this weird game, he'll do it. Gladly.

When he gets back to his room, he fetches his pen from the day before, and flips open the journal. It's blank again. He chews his lower lip and writes:

_Say I did believe you. That magic exists. What would you do?_

The responding answer takes longer to form, but it is still fascinating to watch the ink fade and then reappear in an entirely different sentence.

**_Well, _**the sentence reads, **_then I would congratulate you for having some intelligence. Then I would answer the second question you asked me. _**

The handwriting slows slightly, as if uncertain, and then speeds up again.

**_I would tell you that I am twelve years old, my name is Harry James Potter, and I have been trapped inside this diary for decades._**

**.**

**.**

**AN: Oooh, Bruce just met Harry. ;)) Things are moving, now. Please review! They make me smile. And I hope everyone has a nice summer break! If you're still in school, well... hang in there.**

**Update list: Haunted Memories REDUX, Misconceptions, Second Chances, Ink Stains.**


	4. Lonely Plus Lonely Equals

**AN: Agh, I'm kind of crying right now, because I typed out this WHOLE FREAKING AN and then accidentally deleted it in the doc manager, so this is my second time around MAHSNDEHDNTECHNOLOGYWHYYOUNOLIKEME?**

**Replies: (Because all of you are awesome... but some of you left some pretty flipping awesome reviews...)**

**AJCNFHSKCNHANHDX (Guest, lol): I'M SORRY ANONYMOUSBRO THAT I LEFT YOU HANGING. HERE, HAVE ANOTHER CHAPTER. **

**blackgoddess123: Your review literally left me squealing. I don't think anyone has ever complimented my story in such an eloquent way. Tears of happiness, my friend. Tears of happiness. ;_;**

**Levitarius: I kind of made myself cry while writing THIS chapter, which is something that never happens, so, uh, enjoy. And frankly, I'm surprised you had the mental capacity to type that wonderful review after 48 hrs of no sleep. O.O**

**Reader (guest): Thank you for your sweet review. And your English is very good, so don't worry. **

**Chapter 3**

**.**

**.**

**_Previously:_**

_Say I did believe you. That magic exists. _

The answer takes longer to form, but it is still fascinating to watch the ink fade and then reappear in an entirely different sentence.

**_Well, _**the sentence reads, **_then I would applaud you for possessing some intelligence. Then I would answer the second question you asked me. _**

The handwriting slows slightly, as if uncertain, and then speeds up again.

**_I would tell you that my name is Harry James Potter, and that I am twelve years old. _**

**.**

**.**

Harry stares at the dim sky, experiencing something that he hasn't felt in a long while.

Shock_. _

His sentence, his admission, is scrawled across the sky, boldly, a declaration. The letters maintain their rigidity, but the edges ooze slightly, minuscule droplets forming on their arches and loops, like inky icicles.

Harry isn't sure what prompted him to let loose such a stark admission. Saying it so boldly, so black-and-white (excuse the pun) makes him mentally flinch. He imagines his heart _(He doesn't have one, but if he did, his heart would have been gasping painfully) _beating frantically in his 'ears'.

'_Ba-dump,' _he thinks.

'_Ba-dump.'_

'_Ba-dump.' _

Would it be considered sad that he has to think up his own heartbeat? He can't remember. Anyhow, the fake noise is soothing, repetitive, helping him to think.

A hand—large, calloused, warm—presses down on one of his pages, steadying the other hand as it writes quickly.

_Twelve years old? What do you mean? How did you get trapped in this? Why are the initials T.M.R. if your name is Harry James Potter?_

Harry ponders the words for a moment, turning the first question over and over in his head as he mulls. Is… is he _really_ twelve years old? He'd blurted that out as a small little pity-trap, hoping to garner the writer's interest, but… was he really twelve? Physically, he was, or at least, he _had_ been, when Tom had trapped him in the diary… but after all those decades, all those years… all Tom's dark, tainted memories coursing through his consciousness… could he really claim the innocence and purity of a simple-minded twelve year-old child?

_'No.'_

And suddenly, he feels… old. Ancient, even, with a thousand regrets churning through his head at every moment, every second.

The very thought sparks a flame of righteous fury in him. He shouldn't have to feel this way. _He shouldn't have to!_ He _should_ _be_ a stupid little kid… he should be able to run and play and laugh and breathe and taste, not imprisoned in this gruesome nothingness. He shouldn't have to bear this crushing burden. He shouldn't have to wait _powerlessly_ for someone to pick up the diary and write, shouldn't have to manipulate them into befriending him, shouldn't have to spend every moment in fear that someone will harm the diary, shouldn't have to struggle to remember his own _life_—!

For Merlin's sake, he's just—just—

_'I'm just a child!'_

For the first time in… in a very long time, it seems, his mental defenses, his iron walls, rust and shatter. His forcefully cold demeanor melts away like snow under a hot sun. His age rolls off him, his haunting memories recede, his mentally clenched-and-ready fists loosen, leaving plain sorrow in their wake. If he had eyes, they would be downcast, hazy with tears and pain and bitterness…

… He's just a child.

A _child_.

_(A stupid, helpless little child who desperately longs for companionship, for freedom, for his mother and father—_)

He shouldn't have to—shouldn't have to—

For the first time in a very long time, Harry James Potter wishes he could cry.

**.**

**Bruce**

**.**

The journal doesn't reply immediately.

Bruce waits, and waits, and _waits_, but the questions that he's penned remain clearly on the page in bold black ink. He sighs, running a hand through his wild brown hair, and leans back on the dirty floor of the tiny apartment cell.

He knows he wasn't hallucinating it—he won't even try to convince himself that he made it up. The question is, why isn't the journal—Harry—responding? Is it something he said?

His hands twitch. He wants to be doing something. He wants to dive more into his research, follow that one theory he'd made, but he _can't_ because a _certain_ little diary decided it would be _funny_ to steal all of his notes and diagrams and spin tales of magic and whatnot.

'_Play along,' _he reminds himself, dragging two palms down his face, muffling his weary sigh. _'Just get back the research. And figure out how this diary works. That's it.'_

He picks up the pen once again. _Are you okay? Did I say something offensive?_

What could be offensive about asking questions? Bruce rolls the barrel of the pen between his fingers, perplexed. Supposedly, the diary-person is twelve years old. A boy, named Harry James Potter.

Twelve years old.

A kid.

What kind of sick joke is this? What person, what agency, would stoop so low as to don the mask of a helpless little kid? His dark brows pucker, meeting in a slight 'v'. How did they, whoever 'they' were, even find out that children were his weakness? His entire life, whenever Bruce has seen a young child in danger or in need of assistance, he's always rushed to help, no matter the timing or situation or whatever. Children are his weak spot.

And even though Bruce is a man of science, a man of _it-must-be-right-in-front-of-me-or-I-won't-believe -it, _he can't firmly tuck away the nagging voice in the back of his head, the one that seeks the unknown, delights in unraveling its mysteries, _'What if it's real?'_

After all, it _is_ right in front of him. He's examined it thoroughly, run it through the run-down X-ray scanner at the clinic in the city, and found absolutely _nothing_ but parchment paper.

_Harry? _He writes reluctantly, uncertain of whether or not it is a wise thing to get on a first-name basis with this mysterious entity.

**_I'm fine. Just _**(the writing slows down a bit here) **_a little overwhelmed. No one has talked to me in a while. What date is it? What is your name?_**

Bruce touches the page as the wet ink blooms, pulling his finger away to discover it black with ink. As the script unfolds, ending the last sentence, he cautiously lifts the page, and watches, stunned, through the semi-transparent parchment as the sentence flourishes on the front.

_My name is John, and it's June 13th, 2013. _

**_John, huh? Is that your real name? Is that even the real date?_**

Bruce shocks himself by cracking a grin at that. There's no sound to accompany the words, but he can tell by the sharp, jerky way the letters appear that the person—_Harry_, he really has to get used to that—is being sarcastic.

_It's not my real name, but yeah, that's the correct date. _

**_I suppose I can deal with that… John. Is your last name Smith, by any chance? _**

Bruce's grin widens.

If this turns out to be real, and not a hoax intended to pick him dry of any information about his research or himself… he thinks that he just might grow to like this person. _(He's always found a sharp wit amusing.)_

_Not to be rude or anything, but you didn't answer my previous questions._

**_The, 'How did I get trapped, am I really twelve, why the initials?'_**

_Yeah._

The writing speeds up, brittle, angry. Ink wells slightly in the letters, overflowing a bit, like someone pressing a pen too hard.

_**I put my trust in the wrong person. I was nice. I ended up paying for it. I was twelve when the person I'd helped betrayed me and locked me in here. I'm not sure about the initials. Maybe it's because they're the initials that belonged to T** _(The letter scribbles itself out, almost frantically, nearly afraid)** _the person I helped out. He made this diary, after all. Even if I inhabit it, that doesn't change its maker. _**

Bruce is slightly amused by the kid-ish way that the writing slants a bit, the messy script, the gaps between lines of text _(just like his own handwriting when he was little)._ But then the message sinks in, _(literally)_ and he muses, absently brushing his fingers over his ever-persistent stubble.

_Well, is there anything I can do?_

Pause.

_**No**, _the message reads, the two simple letters appearing slowly. Bruce is struck with the image of an old man, defeated by age, dragging his feet in the dirt. **_I don't think there's magic in this universe. Someone would have gotten to me by now if there were. There was a department, in my dimension, that was in charge of regulating magical items, so they didn't fall into the hands of non-magical people. But no one's come for me. _**

'_Whoa, whoa, whoa, alternate dimension? What?' _is what Bruce would _like_ to ask, but he gets the feeling that Harry isn't done yet. He's right, a moment later, words manifest, somehow bearing the weight of the world in every movement.

**_I am alone. _**

And well, doesn't that just scream deja-vu to Bruce?

_(Late nights, tired eyes, scraping money, avoiding people.)_

For a moment, he stares. And then he exhales, loudly, feeling his eyebrows contract as pity squeezes his heart. He's such a softie. Honestly. _'Possible government maneuver,' _he tries to remind himself, but it doesn't stop him from writing,

_Well, I'm alone too. So what happens when two very lonely people meet each other?_

Geez. It's like he can almost sense the angst practically pouring off the journal.

**_What?_**

Bruce smiles as he scribbles briefly on his palm, getting the ink flowing, and writes:

_They're not so lonely anymore. _

**_._**

**_._**

**AN: How do you make a good story cake? Simple. Add eight cups of angst (powdered) and stir into a mixture of fluff and wary friendship. Sprinkle with magic and science. Add some green frosting for decorations. Bake for however long inspiration is needed to collect.**

**Serve while fresh off the laptop. ;)**

**UPDATE: apparently the site was being stupid and kept you guys from reading the chapter immediately. Sorry about the wait. I hope you'll be patient enough to review anyway when IT FINALLY FREAKING LOADS.**

**I've said it before, and I'll say it again-TECHNOLOGY Y U NO LIKE ME?**


	5. Lazy Doodles and Russian Assassins

**AN: Hey all! Sorry about your difficulties in viewing last chapter. Special thanks to the following for reviewing: Gabrielle-Lucy-Di'Angelo, blackcallalily, Savy13, Goofy-Goober3D, A. , Kai19, Lilyannenora, Rinnala, KatHarkness-Katara, JazzNProwl's sparklingAriaFyre, Basia Orci, forTheLoveOfHades, one-who-loves-Sesshy, AuraRogers, PhantomBowtie, Quetzalcoatis, Ghost appears, ukwand77, RedtailHawk19, AnimeIceFox, Tipper, Riqis Inna Sunja, Sakura Lisel, Fantasy-Mania31, Kimichan13, Ithilelda, MadHatCat, dawnhallj, Dewi111, Lira Trueflight, Azzy97, EmptySurface, WerewolfLover13, Technology, Kurokage Kitsune, carolaineclipse, Queen of Legend, Levitarius, phantomgirl95, AnimeVamp1997, CatgirlKitsune, FlyingLovegood123, Inveigler, Fk306, Faliara, Ansa88, breathe-the-ocean-calls, JackBunjeeKiki, juia, Guest.**

**Technology (Guest): I see what you did there. Well played, random person… well played. **

**TIIIIIIMESKIIIP TIME!**

**-enjoy-**

**Recommended Song: Therapy, by Relient K. Clean lyrics so don't worry. **

**.**

**Three Weeks Later**

**Bruce**

**.**

_**Tell me about the weather.**_

Bruce smiles softly, and does as commanded, lifting his shaggy-haired head in order to survey his surroundings. He takes a few seconds to organize his thoughts, and then puts his pen to the paper and writes.

_I'm sitting under a big tree. Its roots are fat and thick and you can see them before they curve away underneath the ground. They form a seat. There's no grass around the tree for about a good three feet. I think its been trampled by the local children. Anyway, the diary is on my lap, and I've got my legs folded underneath it like a desk._

_**The weather, Bruce, **_Harry reminds, but not impatiently so. Bruce knows that the boy will take anything given with eagerness.

_I'm getting there, hold on! Okay, so… it's probably, what, eighty-four degrees in Calcutta._

_**Where's that?**_

_It's in India._

_**Oh. Continue. **_

_So, it's pretty warm. It'll be dark in a little while. I'm sweating a little, and I'm only wearing cargo shorts and a dirty button-up._

**What color? What does the fabric feel like?  
**

Bruce has to keep reminding himself that Harry might as well be blind and deaf and unable to physically feel anything. Maybe he's imagining it, but every time they have their "questionnaire sessions" as Harry likes to call them, the trapped boy seems to adopt a wistful tone.

_The cargo shorts are off-white (although if that's from dirt or just they way they are, I can't necessarily remember) and the shirt is plum. The cargo shorts are heavy-duty fabric. They don't feel rough when I touch them, but they're not exactly soft either. They're stiffer than the shirt, which is light and breathes easily. I've got the top two buttons undone. The buttons are purple, only a slightly darker shade than the shirt itself. The sleeves fold at the elbows._

'_**Plum'?**_

Bruce smirks at Harry's amused inquiry, his pen slack in his hand as he gives himself a rest. It's hard to write so much, so fast in reply to Harry's rapid-pace questions. Instead, he slowly scribbles a tangle of ink on the page. It sinks in a moment later, only to resurface in the shape of a doodle. Harry likes doing that. He'd let it slip a while ago that he used to like drawing, but he hadn't been able to while trapped in the diary because he was forced to use the ink to form quick replies to diary entries. No one had ever stayed long enough to give him excess ink to play with.

Bruce watches raptly as small light strokes of ink appear on the diary's surface, in that light, careful chicken-scratch way that experienced artists use when mapping out a drawing. A simple curve becomes a bent spine that extends upwards to a neck, and curves out again for the back of a skull. Harry sketches a man slumped against a tree, his body aligned with the tree's roots that curl outwards and sink beneath a simple long hash mark that acts as a temporary ground line.

Then he goes in for the details.

He adds cargo shorts and some hair on the legs, (which Bruce doesn't really mind, because two weeks prior Harry had already squeezed from him as exact a description of himself that he could possibly give, and yes, that included leg hair.)

He hesitates when he gets to the feet. _(Long crooked toes, high arches, slightly prominent ankle bones, running feet.)_

_**What are your shoes like?**_ Harry scribbles off to the side.

Bruce stretches out his legs for a second so that he can see them clearly. He wiggles his toes.

_Ratty sneakers. The tongues are worn thin and threadbare. One is missing its laces. My left big toe pokes through a tiny rip in the front seam._

The sketching continues. Bruce smiles as Harry nearly nails the description, getting everything perfect except for the placement of some of the larger seams that lead down to the shoe's sole.

Harry finishes with the bent legs and moves back up to the pants, adding in folds and creases where he fancies. He draws a seam going down the side of the left pant leg, which, in Bruce's opinion, makes it look quite official.

_**Is your shirt tucked in?**_

_Heck no. I only tuck when I must._

Harry doodles a laughing smiley-face off to the side before moving on, adding the untucked shirt. It's rumpled and Harry is careful to make the folds extra dark when he neatly colors in the shirt using a series of crosshatching. A messy arrow pointing at the shirt and curving away appears, labeled in messy all caps, _**"PLUM".**_

_Ha ha, Harry. Don't mock my descriptions!_

Bruce doesn't write "or else." He'd written something like that a week ago, when Harry had been in one of his I-hate-everything moods. Bruce hadn't even been serious. He'd scrawled it before thinking how Harry might take it. It was a simple message. _(Don't be so negative or I'll shut the diary for five minutes!)_

Harry had immediately freaked out, ink spurting across the page spastically, frantic messages begging him not to leave immediately slashing the pure pages, like bloody splatter marks. So much ink welled up that it stained Bruce's hands when he tried to steady the diary in order to calm Harry's flood.

_**(DON'T GO PLEASE I'M SORRY I DIDN'T MEAN TO MAKE YOU MAD PLEASE PLEASE DON'T LEAVE I'M SORRY—)**_

That was when Bruce had found out that five minutes to him could be like five years to Harry. Harry's sense of time had been seriously wacked up by the diary.

But that wasn't even the _saddest_ part about the whole ordeal.

Bruce had been whole-heartedly ashamed of himself for writing that so thoughtlessly. By all means, Harry should've been angry with him, sullen and annoyed at the very least. Instead, after Bruce had properly apologized, Harry spewed streams of questions at an astonishing pace, designed to draw him into conversation. Bruce knew that their topics weren't even what Harry wanted to talk about. _**(What's your favorite color what are your hobbies do you travel do you have any pets do you like reading please answer I'm sorry don't go what's the weather like now do you have any family?)**_

Bruce had never felt such a curious mix of self-shame and horrendous pity.

Eventually, Bruce had managed to calm Harry down by answering all his questions_ (still apologizing)_ and revealing his name in the process. Somehow, Harry using his real name, not 'John', seemed to make everything much more personal after that.

Harry is his responsibility now. He hasn't let the diary leave his hands, hasn't even put it in his satchel. Not with the amount of pick-pockets in this city. When's he's not talking to Harry, he keeps it in his front pocket, where he can easily see its bulge and feel its weight.

_**Bruce? You there?**_

_Yeah, I'm here,_ Bruce writes quickly, before Harry thinks he's walked off.

_**Help me with your hair.**_

_Okay, my hair is a bit longer—no, not that long! I'm not a hippie! …there we go, better… I have a fringe of bangs… they just kind of curl sideways over my forehead, like a wave, or Superman's cowlick. I'm wearing my reading glasses. And don't forget my stubble. Never forget the stubble. It's a vital factor to my identity. _

Talking with Harry is a million times better than professional therapy would ever be.

Mainly because he's actually told him about… about the 'Other Guy.'

In one of his more morbid moments, he'd confessed it to Harry in a long stream of writing, thinking it would be better to get it out in one plain statement. His reasoning was, 'If I accidentally go Hulk and bound off into a whole different country, I don't want Harry thinking that I just left him. Not intentionally, anyway.'

Harry had taken a surprisingly little amount of time to process it.

_('__**Please, I'm an inter-dimensional wizard stuck in an enchanted diary. You turn big and green when you're angry. I think this is fate.')**_

…

_(And maybe it is.)_

**.**

**.**

At 7:34 p.m. according to Bruce's beaten and raggedy wristwatch, Harry finishes the sketch, which now includes a whole setting behind the figure of Bruce reclining against the tree and a couple other doodles surrounding the main artwork. The sun's last rays wink out of existence when the fiery orb disappears behind a far-off cropping of mountains.

Oh, and a filthy little girl runs up to Bruce and tugs frantically on his hand.

**.**

**.**

Right now, Bruce really regrets establishing an occupation as a freelance doctor.

_(His wariness is slacking, and maybe that's because of Harry, and maybe it isn't, but anyway, he shouldn't have fallen for that so easily.)_

He has just enough time to get back to the cell, change his clothes into something more suitable, and fetch his rag-tag medicine bag. The girl stares briefly at the sick people he's taken in over the past week, dark eyes wide and solemn. He shoos her from the room, not wishing for her to catch the sickness herself. He shoulders on the overcoat as the little girl scrunches the thin wad of dirty bills in her hand from her position just outside the door, tears glossing her round doe brown eyes.

_(Children have always been his weakness.)_

She _(honestly, he didn't even pause to ask her name!)_ leads him through the inner ring of city, where nightlife is wild and exotic music pulses from vendors on every corner. The houses are more cramped, and roads are rarely anything other than tightly trampled dirt lanes. Smog hangs thick over this part of the city, like a blanket.

He puts a hand out in front of the little girl, holding her back for a second as a truck ambles down the path in front of them. He turns away, hiding his face. The tightly packed buildings and surplus of people in this part of the city sets him on edge.

She leads him past a group of boisterous grizzled men, obviously intoxicated, gathered around a tiny outdoors television set, past a big goat with matted hair tethered to a rotting fence, through a torn pink and green curtain that acts as a doorway for another cluster of small one-room houses. He slows down, puzzled, as the little girl silently speeds forward, climbing a stack of debris and disappearing through a small gap in the planks of the house. He can't possible follow her through that.

He huffs, leaning against the doorway in disbelief, even as paranoia sets in.

"Shoulda got paid up front, Banner," he mutters to himself, because talking to himself is almost as good as talking to Harry. He brushes his thumb over the part of the diary that sticks out of his pocket, generally exasperated with the whole situation and with himself.

Harry was obviously annoyed when Bruce hurriedly wrote an apology and closed the cover at the first sight of the little girl. Bruce hopes he'll be able to make it up to him with stories about his first transformations into Hulk. Harry seems to find those interesting, and talking about them kind of helps relieve the nightmarish flurry of feelings that accompany the memories.

"You know, for a man who's supposed to be avoiding stress… you certainly picked quite the place to settle."

An undeniably gorgeous woman ambles around a dilapidated corner, hugging a red shawl around her perfect hourglass figure. Red ringlets frame her remarkable face, barely touching her shoulders. She wears a form-fitting black dress. A necklace hangs from her soft pale throat.

Bruce moves around a little, sighing internally, ears and eyes pricked for any sign of movement.

"Avoiding stress isn't the secret," he stalls, looking for all possible exits.

"Then what is it? Yoga?"

He chuckles. His throat is dry. His pulse wants to speed up, he knows, but he doesn't let it.

"You brought me to the edge of the city. Heh. Smart. I'm assuming I'm surrounded?"

He'd heard it. A slight shift of movement that produces a muffled snap when a booted foot breaks a dead stalk of some kind of plant. Scarcely noticeable. In fact, anyone who hadn't been on the run for years wouldn't have noticed it at all.

"Just you and me."

'_Oh, sure,' _Bruce thinks sardonically to himself.

"And, uh, your little actress buddy… she a spy, too? They start that young, now?"

His hands clasp in front of his chest as he walks slowly over to the curtain, peeking out a little. No girl in sight. _'Great.'_

"I did," the woman says, her chin jutting out, as if proving a point.

"And… who are you?"

"Natasha Romanov." She acts like he should know the name, assuming she'll get a reaction out of him.

Bruce grows sick of the pretended formalities. Dread settles in his stomach like an anchor. The floorboards creak beneath his feet.

"Are you here to kill me, Miss Romanov, 'cause that's not gonna work out. For everyone." He smiles a fake, pleasant smile, flashbacks of previous attempts on his life flashing through his head.

"No, 'course not. I'm here on behalf of SHIELD."

'_Course not. Because why on earth would anyone ever want to kill little ol' me?'_

"SHIELD," he says, shifting from one foot to the other, head tucked while he contemplates. "How'd they find me?"

So maybe staying for so long in Calcutta really hadn't been a good idea after all.

"We never lost you, doctor, we merely… kept our distance, even helped keep some interested parties off your scent."

Scent, like a wild animal.

_(Dogs baying, voices shouting, he is running frantically through the forest, desperately controlling his pulse, reigning in the frustration and anger—)_

"Why?" He inquires, after gulping away the dryness in his tongue and throat.

"Nick Fury seems to trust you. But now we need you to come in."

Again, like an animal, at beck and call.

He nods, eyes flickering. "What if I say no?"

She smiles pleasantly. It's fake.

_(Bruce is quite familiar with fake smiles.)_

Something in the arch of her thin eyebrows, the litheness of her body, the graceful poise with which she carries herself, suddenly makes her dangerous, like a coiled snake.

"I'll persuade you."

Bruce sees her quiet confidence in her abilities and the danger level flies into the red zone.

He nods again, licks his lips, ears straining for any sounds. Did he imagine the noise?

"And, what if the… Other Guy… says no?"

"You've been more than a year without an incident. I don't think you want to break that streak."

Using his own tentative ability to control his rage against him, coupled with his own morals against transforming… smart lady.

"But I don't always get what I want," he murmurs softly, playing absently with some sort of rickety swing attached with rusty chains to the disintegrated ceiling of the abandoned house.

Romanov pulls out a phone, not even looking at him when she says in a no-nonsense-voice, "Doctor, we're facing a global catastrophe."

Bruce laughs at the irony. He taps his fingers on the swing's back. "Oh, those I actively try to avoid."

'_Duh.'_

"This is the Tesseract." She places the phone down on an old card table off to the side, sliding it across as she takes a seat on one of the rusty chairs. Letting him approach.

'_Wild animal, caught in the trap.'_

He does approach, pulled by the same insatiable curiosity that drove him to get involved with Harry, pulling his dusty reading glasses out once more as he squints at the phone's screen. Romanov keeps her hands on the table, where he can see them.

An HD picture of a blurry glowy thing. A tricked out Rubik's Cube. "What does Fury want me to do, swallow it?"

Romanov leans forward a bit, blinking once as if talking to a toddler. He hates that 'Thou art not as superior as I' look.

"He wants you to _find_ it. It's been taken. It emits a gamma signature that's too weak for us to trace. There's no one that knows gamma radiation like you do. If there was…" she leans back again, shrugging off-handedly. "That's where I'd be."

Gamma radiation. This is about a cube. A glowy cube that supposedly could somehow help cause a worldwide catastrophe. Not the Monster.

"So Fury doesn't want…" he trails off, the implied words as heavy as if he'd spoken them anyways.

"Not that he's told me," she replies. As if that'll ease his nerves.

"And he tells you everything," he scoffs quietly, a bit mocking, a bit derisive. Something hard glints in her eyes for a second.

She urges, "Talk to Fury himself."

He knows that she knows that he knows that she changed the subject purposefully. She's very good at this.

"So no one's gonna put me in a cage," he asks, still lightly scornful, as a quick idea turns over in his sharp head.

"No one's gonna—" she starts quickly, but he slams his broad calloused hands on the table, getting in her face, face twisted in rage. The worn expression disappears. He lets his anger shine through.

"_STOP LYING TO ME!" _He roars, and maybe there's a bit of truth in that command. _Everyone_ lies to him. No one can be trusted.

Just him and Harry. Bruce and Harry. That's it. No Romanov, no SHIELD, no little girl paid to lead him into a trap.

_(Just. Him. And. Harry.) _

That's all he needs.

Startled at his outburst, his sudden switch from shy and quiet to loud and abrasive, she stands immediately, pulling out a handgun from absolutely freaking _nowhere_ it seems like, her dainty fingers poised on the trigger in less than a second.

For the umpteenth time in his life, Bruce stares down the barrel of a gun.

He's tired.

He pulls back, smirking a little bit, masking the exhaustion underneath a smug exterior. "I'm sorry… that was mean… I just wanted to see what you would do…"

She looks at him like he's insane, and maybe he is. God knows _how_ he wouldn't be. "So let's do this the easy way… where you don't use that…" he gestures lightly to the gun. She is silent. "…And the Other Guy doesn't make a mess… okay…? Natasha…?"

She is silent, nice demeanor totally gone. In its place is something ruthless, something formed from years and years of hard training drilled into her soul. But maybe she sees the honesty in his words, so she blinks her dark eyelashes once more, as if clearing off the shock, and puts a hand to her ear, touching a comm. device.

"Stand down," she orders quietly. "We're good here."

Bruce grins bitterly as the ring of fully equipped soldiers, having emerged out of the surroundings, fall at ease. "Just you and me," he says softly. Natasha lowers her hand from her ear, the other propped on her waist as she watches him warily, assuming he was addressing her.

He was thinking of Harry.

**.**

**.**

**AN: Oh, I forgot this: HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY EVERYONE WHO LIVES IN THE STATES LIKE I DO! Wheeee! Mine was awesome! **** I mean, the food at the party I went to was… uh… kind of… enh… and I almost consumed an alcoholic beverage by pure accident… but hey, it was fun. And I can't believe the diversity of readers I have from nations all over the world! That is so cool! ****Does anyone from England read this?**** I've always wanted to go to England. I love English accents. :P**

**OH! I'm going on vacation for the entire next week, so it'll be a bit until my next chapter. But my birthday is in a couple of days, so happy birthday to myself and everyone who was similarly born in July. **

**Hope you liked! The next time you see me, I'll be fifteen! Which… uh… is old enough to do… nothing…**


	6. To Find a Wall

**AN: THANK YOU ALL BRITISH PEOPLE WHO RESPONDED LAST CHAPTER! I was so happy, I literally tried to read all your reviews in a British accent… **

**We have broken records people. Amount of communities this measly story is in: 31 flipping communities. That's seriously unbelievable. Review amount for a chapter: we reached 112 review. 1 1 2 REVIEWS, PEOPLE. ;_; I'm literally about to cry. You guys are so nice. Just… thank you. **

**I AM 15! Hahaha! Also, I loved some of your suggestions as for what I can do legally. I actually have a job already (I work at Chick-fil-a. :D) and it's cool actually having some money for once. My birthday kind of sucked, though, because I got severe food poisoning for a week, single-handedly ruined my family's big vacation, and almost went to the hospital. Oh, and my wifi is on the fritz again. URGH. (Happy thoughts, happy thoughts…)**

**I think I'm going to start responding to your reviews. ****Because honestly, if I tried to respond to every single one that made me smile, this AN would be longer than the chapter. Soo… leave me a nice thoughtful review, and I might be talking to you soon. ;)**

**.**

**.**

Bruce is on his way to SHIELD headquarters.

Harry isn't quite sure how to feel about this. Bruce is clearly wary but is trying to be optimistic. Harry, on the other hand… he's not sure what to think of all this. He finds it near unbelievable how events in Bruce's life have escalated so quickly. He tries not to think about it too much.

After all, Harry had to admit _(bitterly) _how things had escalated so quickly in his own life. But all of a sudden, Bruce is so busy packing, and reviewing gamma concepts, using the diary as an actual notebook to hold his sudden flurry of theories and speculations and algorithms. _(Harry lets him do this, as he has learned how to store and bring up Bruce's sketches and diagrams in order to help him.)_

So Harry is doing nothing _(as per usual) _when it hits him.

He feels… good.

Really good.

Something about the void seems… off. Different. The whiteness seems slightly thinner than usual, like a lifting fog. Harry stares into it in confusion, sending a tendril of consciousness forward, analyzing… but he can't see anything different. Yet he _knows_ something has changed.

He just feels _good_. Refreshed, like he'd had one of those… oh, what were they called… energy drinks? He feels _aware_, on a higher level.

_(He used to think of awareness as a curse. Now he clings to it desperately, for he is just starting to realize how self-harming Tom's memories are to him, how much they remind him painfully of everything he's lost.)_

The diary's cover is closed. Bruce is on a jet right now, Harry knows. Harry is probably stuffed in Bruce's front pocket. He wishes Bruce would take him out and talk to him, but he understands _(reluctantly) _that Bruce's world does not revolve around him, and he has to let the man breathe.

'_Bruce has been awfully tired lately,' _he ponders, even as half of him still attempts to figure out what is suddenly different about his environment. Bruce spends nearly eight hours a day talking with Harry, or so he's told, because eight hours to Harry could just as easily mean eight minutes or eight months. Bruce likes to joke that the muscles in his wrists are going to be so developed that he'll have the strength of the Hulk at all times.

By now, they know everything about each other. Harry knows about Betty. Bruce knows about Voldemort.

_(Although Bruce only knows a little about **Tom**.)_

Is Harry a… a bad friend? Bruce has confessed all of his wonderful and vile secrets to Harry, yet Harry finds that he cannot talk about a sixteen-year-old dark wizard that single-handedly ruined his life. Guilt churns Harry's consciousness, ruffling his feelings. It's not very friend-like to keep secrets, is it?

_(Harry is not sure. He hasn't had friends in so long.)_

Far below him, where the white void bleeds steadily from charcoal gray to jet black, Tom's memories call out sweetly to him, luring him, tempting him.

After all the time Harry has spent in the Diary, he has finally absorbed every single one of Tom's memories. And now that there are none left, none to remind him what life is _like_, he isn't quite sure what to do.

Bruce is an _angel_. If he hadn't been in possession of the Diary when Tom's memories ran out, Harry thinks he might have well and truly gone insane.

And the only outcome that Harry can come to now is that… he feels _tainted_. Not that he was pure and innocent before; honestly, after decades spent in nothingness, he's certainly lost his naiveté. But containing Tom's memories makes him almost feel like he's done those horrible deeds himself. There is blood on his hands now.

_(If he actually literally had hands, that is.)_

Harry feels the diary shift, feels it pulled out of something—Bruce's pocket, most likely, and laid on a flat surface, probably his lap. Fingers drum his cover a second before they open it, Bruce's casual way of "knocking" before entering. An overwhelming fondness make Harry wish he could smile, or hug the man. He's never met a man so considerate, so friendly in such a lean-on-my-shoulder way... how could people ever think he was a monster?

A bubble of joy fills Harry like water filling a cup to the brim, and he harnesses the strands of ink floating around him, readying them for a reply.

Bruce does not disappoint. His handwriting today is an even messier doctor's scrawl than it usually is. The words are written with an abundance of pressure and speed. Conclusion: Bruce is nervous.

_I have to admit… this is nerve-wracking._

_**What, the jet?**_

_Yeah. You should see this agent sitting across from me, he just tried to look at what I was writing… these SHIELD nuts are insane._

_**Describe him.**_

_Medium height, kind of stocky… wearing a black suit, of course. And sunglasses. INSIDE the jet. How cliché can they be?_

_**What's his name?**_

_Dunno. I'll ask him._

Harry waits, and waits, but Bruce does not answer right away. He is just about to form a question when he pauses, realizing that Bruce may not be answering for a reason. Perhaps someone is looking right at the page right now.

The next second, Bruce's pen flashes across the blank sheet once more, the nib letting out a small clot of black ink as he hurriedly writes, _Got to go, we're here._

The diary shuts, and Harry is annoyed and—_dare_ he say it, slightly jealous. SHIELD has been lapping up more and more of Bruce's time, and Harry… he most certainly does _not_ like it. From what Bruce has told him, this "Natasha" person seems like a lying jerk, and Nick Fury can't be any better if he's her big bad boss. In fact, Harry suddenly decides crossly, he thinks _every_ SHIELD agent is a jerk. Big fat jerks with too much money and too much power.

Frustrated, he does something without thinking—he tosses up ink, like he does when he normally writes a reply—

_(like a child throwing a pillow at a wall)_

—but this time, something is different—the atmosphere dilutes, and the ribbons _keep going._ They keep going, and Harry watches in awe as they form a sort of inky _handprint_ that splatters against what Harry has always considered the "ceiling" of the void, and through that handprint, he _feels_ a wall, a curved, tangible wall, but it is almost flimsy and so naturally he immediately pushes, stretching it like sturdy plastic—his fingertips poke holes through—

Harry's consciousness splinters.

For a moment, for a tiny, short moment, _he has a hand._

A hand that presses against the inside of the diary's cover, a hand that feels the smooth leather, the material of Bruce's slacks, a hand that is warm and 3D and has skin and veins and nails and tendons and blood—

His concentration gives way in surprise, and the stretchy wall actually throws him back, and the hand—the hand of flesh and bone and _reality_—sinks back into the pages, snapping back to him, the inky handprint dripping, its form melting into shapeless liquid once more.

Harry, terrified, stares blankly into the void _(because you cannot look "at" something that is not there—right?) _and knows that something is changing. A dreadful sense of foreboding makes his mind quiver in awe and fright and—and—did that really just—?

Something is very wrong.

Or very right.

He's just not quite sure which one yet.

**.**

**.**

Bruce stumbles as his headache intensifies out of nowhere, like someone has driven a railroad spike into his skull, and the solid pain of it nearly drives him to his knees.

"Sir, are you all right?" A hand catches his bicep, hauls him to his feet. He is tired, so tired—hasn't he actually been sleeping well lately? Why this pain? This weariness?

"I'm fine," he gasps out, shaking off the hand—he isn't very fond of physical contact—as the pain subsides. His heartbeat speeds up dangerously, and he waves off the agents that have surrounded him now, wordlessly asking for a minute to compose himself.

He looks down at his pocket, even as Natasha approaches him, accompanied by a tall man that he knows must be Steve Rogers—the famous Captain America.

Had he imagined it, or… had the diary actually _moved_ in his pocket? Concern flashes through him, and his hand twitches with longing to contact Harry, ask if he is okay.

But maybe he just fabricated the sensation. It's not like he could exactly concentrate in that moment of mind-stabbing pain, anyway, right?

He's just not been feeling well lately. That's all. No need to act up and become a Mother Hen.

He pushes his bone-deep exhaustion behind a mask of polite out-of-place-ness, which actually isn't that hard to conjure, and introduces himself to the living legend.

Steve Rogers is charming and honest to a fault. Despite himself, Bruce likes him almost immediately. Rogers seems to be one of those rare people with their head properly screwed on right.

"All of this must seem strange to you," he offers lamely in the name of small talk, gesturing around at the futuristic aircraft and technology that surrounds them on this cursed ship. He winces internally and refuses the urge to rub the back of his neck. Maybe his people-skills really had disappeared… not that he'd ever had much to begin with, anyway.

'_Nice one, Bruce,' _his inner Harry-voice claps mockingly, sounding exasperated yet highly amused. _'Why don't you just remind the poor man of how his entire world has moved on without him? Go ahead and rub it in!'_

'_Shut up, Harry,' _he retorts without any bite, because, well, it's his Harry voice and he can't be angry with Harry.

_Aaaaand_ he's just now realizing that he has developed a Harry-voice. And he replies to it. In his head.

Lord, he just really wants some coffee. Or herbal tea. Both options are appealing.

"No, this… is actually kind of familiar." Steve tilts his head slightly to look over Bruce's shoulder, watching the platoon of men in basic uniform jogging around the deck of the gargantuan ship, following the barked orders of the captain in front.

"Gentlemen, you might want to come inside," Natasha intervenes smoothly. She's not wearing that dress anymore. Today she wears nice, form-fitting black pants and a red shirt _(honestly, everything is just red red red with her) _and a black leather jacket that does not flatter her curves at all, but somehow she still looks like she just stepped off the runway. She folds her hands primly in front of her, a teasing _(empty) _smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "It's… going to get a little hard to breathe…"

Bruce and Steve meet eyes, both perplexed, and Bruce becomes aware of a klaxon screaming somewhere in the distance. Men in uniforms scramble across the deck, yelling orders, heading for the doors that lead down into the actual ship.

"Is this a submarine?" Steve questions, shifting feet, his eyes squinting against the strong sunlight. The powerful hum of an engine—or a fan, really, has started to pulse from somewhere below the water.

Bruce grins a well-I-guess-I'm-screwed grin and moves forward to the edge of the ship, shaking his head. "Really, you want me in a submerged pressurized container?"

'_That __**is**__ what a submarine is, Bruce,' _Harry-voice laughs.

Bruce doesn't reply because he is too busy staring into the churning whirlpool that has appeared next to the ship, with an incredibly super-sized—fan?—in the middle of the phenomenon. Was that there before? Bruce doesn't remember seeing it when the jet hovered over the ship for landing.

He staggers when the fan—multiple fans, with multiple whirlpools—increases its pitch and speed, and _the ship lifts out of the water. _Salty sea spray splatters his face and clothes and he moves back, not wanting to get the diary wet. The deck vibrates underneath his ratty shoes. He can almost feel it through his thin soles.

The grin widens. Disbelieving, Bruce shuts down the deep-set anger, the disregard for the blatant risks at stake, and shakes his head again. "Oh no, this is much worse." He can barely hear himself speak over the roar of the engines and the strong suction that pulls at his clothes and hair.

He's not sure, but when Natasha herds them inside, he thinks she's grinning.

**.**

**.**

"Doctor, thank you for coming."

Bruce eyes the dark-skinned hand extended to him with just a hint of disbelief. Seriously? As if he had a choice?

"Thanks for asking nicely," he shoots back, taking the hand after a moment, hiding his sarcasm well. Harry would be proud. He averts his eyes, uncomfortable with this powerful man standing right in front of him. Is the black trenchcoat really necessary? A question that has been quietly nagging Bruce surfaces in his mind and he looks back long enough to ask tentatively, "So, uh, how long am I staying…?"

Fury shrugs his shoulders slightly. "Once we get our hands on the Tesseract..."

Bruce nods, it's the answer he figured he'd be given, and he doesn't like it very much, no, not at all. But it's not like he has somewhere to be, and the prospect of working with up-to-date technology once again excites him. He snaps himself into 'business mode' and walks past the Director, hands in his coat pockets.

"So where are you with that?" He's proud that his voice has lost the uncertainty, and instead gained the clipped and removed tone of a professional.

Fury gestures over the railing to the lower inset part of the room, where an agent with a receding hairline folds his arms across his chest and answers him. Agent Coulson, according to the nametag ever so handily clipped onto his suit jacket.

"We're sweeping every wirelessly accessible camera on the planet. Cell phones, laptops. If it's connected to a satellite, it's eyes and ears for us."

Well, that's... very disturbing. Immediately, Bruce realizes what this means for himself and a very big portion of his hope withers. He hadn't expected the agency to have such advanced—not to mention incredibly invasive—equipment. He'll never manage to escape them. SHIELD has just been the amused cat watching the mouse run frantically between its claws.

They could have pulled him in whenever they wanted to.

"It's still not gonna find him in time," Natasha says from where she is crouched by the railing, absently looking at her folded hands.

"You have to know your field—how many spectrometers do you have access to?" Bruce, with great difficulty, swallows the slow-burning anger. He is always angry, but he cannot let that control him right now. Maybe later. If this cursed aircraft has an indestructible room, that is.

"How many are there?"

"Call every lab you know," Bruce says as he shrugs out of his jacket. "Tell them to put the spectrometers on the roof and calibrate them for gamma rays. I'll rough out a tracking algorithm, basic cluster recognition. At least we could rule out a few places." He folds the jacket over his arms, looking back at Fury, who nods as if he's understood all that. Bruce wonders if he really has. Fury seems like a smart guy.

"You have somewhere for me to work?" Bruce inquires a moment later, scratching at his wrist idly. He hopes they do. He really misses a lab. And he _also _hopes that the possible lab has a bedroom annex, where he can maybe sleep and shower and feel clean for once. And talk to Harry in peace.

"Agent Romanov," Fury beckons, "could you show Dr. Banner to his laboratory, please?"

Bruce follows her obediently and smiles when she mutters, "You're gonna love it, Doc. We've got all the toys."

Well, that's good news. He hasn't been allowed to play in such a long time.

**.**

**.**

**AN: Calm thyselves, my children. I want Tony to meet Harry as much you do. I want Loki meeting Harry even more so… :3 I'm so hyped for this story again I'm going to go type up the next chapter as soon as this is posted. **

**Moving along, people. We are moving. This chapter was going to be longer, but… I realized that I was already pretty much slightly less than halfway through the movie when we reached this scene. And once the movie is over, welp, that's it for this one. (Cough cough hinting at a possible sequel dealing with HP universe cough)**

**Last time, I curiously asked for any British reviewer to respond (And you Brits did not fail me in the slightest.) Now, I want to meet everyone, USA or not. I'm one of those types of people that seriously want to just up and travel SOMEWHERE…**

**IMPORTANT: I like art. A lot. And I love seeing other people's art. Please believe me when I say that I'm not being arrogant when I say this: if anyone would like to do fanart for this little fic, that would be AWESOME. I would honestly legit love to see that.**

**To anyone who wasn't familiar with the fourth of july: it's a day where Americans celebrate our independence from Britain, who we fought a long and bloody war with to gain separation. It's a seriously big deal in the nation. **

**Enjoy your lives! Do something kind for someone! Smile! And review! (Which could be your act of kindness, I suppose…)**


	7. Loki and the Leech

**AN: SURPRISE UPDATE! Muahaha! Hello everyone! Bet ya weren't expecting this, eh? Well, neither was I. But I got out of work early and had nothing to do and thought, eh, what the heck, and several hours later and two cups of herbal tea and about a million replays of Hear Me by Imagine Dragons, well, here we are. **

**So, I kinda couldn't respond to all the reviews that I wanted to, since this is gonna be such a fast update. I'm about to leave on another vacation (fingers crossed hoping I won't get sick AGAIN) and you won't hear anything for me for ten days at least, so I hope this'll help a bit. **

**90% of everyone is pretty much 90% aware of what's happening with Bruce. I love a perceptive audience. Also, hello to everyone in different countries and different continents and different states! I bid you welcome to my humble account. **

**This chapter is dedicated to ****FlyingLovegood123, review provider, and outra, ****who similarly have July birthdays. Happy birthday you lovely guys and gals, and thank you—everyone as well—for reviewing.**

**.**

**.**

Bruce closes his eyes, extending his arms briefly. Technology—able, working, and Dear Lord, _stainless steel!_—hums beneath his calloused fingertips. A wry grin tugs persistently at his mouth.

He doesn't like being on an aircraft. He doesn't like being tracked so easily.

But this technology—_this_, he likes.

He fiddles with the knobs on a particularly beautiful device in front of him, adjusting the reading levels, and absentmindedly rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves, revealing stocky arms. He glances over his flesh and pauses momentarily—he thought he had developed quite a healthy tan during his stay in Calcutta—but now, his skin is pale, and, as he clamps his left forearm probingly, slightly clammy.

A bead of perspiration forms on his brow, accompanied by another slow burn of exhaustion. He leans forward, planting his hands on the worktable in front of him, white-knuckled as a wave of dizziness spins his skull.

"Ugh…" He kneads his eyelids with the pads of his thumbs. Maybe he's coming down with a virus? A puzzled frown forms on his alabaster skin, shredding his good mood. But he doesn't get sick—not since the incident that turned him into a monster. Not even a common cold.

Maybe he'll do a blood sample later.

He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out his glasses, propping them low on the bridge of his nose. He squints at the clock. He's been working for a couple hours—when he closes his eyelids, he sees mathematical equations flashing in a strata of colors.

He needs a break.

His gaze falls on the door at the far end of the lab, and he sighs wistfully. The laboratory is an immensely long room, though slightly narrow. Glass paneling faces him, stretching the entire long side of the lab, allowing for a view into the fluorescent-lit corridor. Both lab exits are at each end of the room, and Bruce is standing (or slumping, really) right in the smack-dab middle.

The problem is; he doesn't feel like moving.

So instead, he hops backwards onto the edge of the low steel table behind him, and pulls out the diary. He's almost too tired to think, but he knows that Harry, poor kid, deserves someone to talk to. He suspects that the boy might be getting jealous of his time—and though the thought amuses him a bit, he doesn't want his firm friendship with Harry to weaken, not even a bit.

He taps his knuckles on the handsome leather cover, waits, and then opens the book, his polite version of knocking before entry.

A sentence forms immediately.

_**Need your notes?**_

Bruce winces. Harry has no voice to sound sarcastic, no body to hint at emotion, but Harry pens the sentence slowly and neatly, contrary to his usual speedy scribble.

Yeah, he's irritated.

_No, just wanted to talk. _

Harry's handwriting seems to perk, and Bruce snorts.

_**Oh, cool. **_

Bruce touches the pen to the paper to write, then pulls away when more words appear in hesitant, jerky etches. He arches a brow.

_**Hey I have something to t**_

The writing slows, then stops mid-word. Nothing else unfurls across the cream parchment.

_?_ Bruce prompts.

A thick ink line slashes through Harry's previous sentence, and the words are sucked back into the diary a moment later.

_**I **_

_**Never mind. It's not important. **_

_Something wrong?_

_**No. Nothing's wrong—just thinking.**_

_About…?_

_**Stuff, **_Harry retorts cheekily. Evasive. Bruce hesitates, then decides not to pursue the subject anymore. Instead, he changes the subject, hoping to put the boy more at ease.

_Okay, I've got a challenge for you. I'm going to describe some of the people I've met—you've got to draw them. Deal?_

Harry draws a cartoony winky face. _**Just give me the ink.**_

Bruce fishes around in his pocket for a spare pen and cusses quietly when he realizes that his last one ran out of ink two days ago.

He forces himself to get up and walk to the other end of the room, opening the door. He sticks his head out of the doorway, smiling politely at the stoic agent stationed, hands folded professionally, outside his door.

"Hello. Can I borrow a pen?"

The agent smiles a bland smile and dips his head, reaching a hand into the sewn inside pocket of his suit jacket. "Certainly."

Bruce accepts it with a polite murmur of thanks, ducking back into the lab, leaving the door open to circulate the stale air. It's a nice pen, shiny barrel, good grip, with the wet gel ink that Harry prefers.

He almost feels bad when he crisply snaps it in half, letting the ink splatter from the thin plastic discharge tube onto the previously blank page. A healthy amount of the jet black substance collects on the fibrous sheet. Bruce tosses the pen in the trashcan and watches, quietly fascinated as always, as the puddle dwindles, like swirling down a drain.

He uncaps his own pen and uses it to record his descriptions.

_Okay, so Natasha Romanoff. High cheekbones, clear skin, curly red hair that barely reaches her shoulders. Good physique. Pink lips. Hazel eyes. She wears dark eyeliner._

Bruce sits back and marvels quietly as Harry starts with a basic circle, then drops a line from the circle's left side, curling it sharply into a chin, then hooking upwards again, at a broader angle for the jaw line. A rough oval acts as a temporary ear.

Harry continues drawing at a ¾ profile, with Bruce occasionally amending any mistakes. Between the two of them, Harry manages to create a portrait of the woman, looking off into the distance, her thin eyebrows arched in quiet confidence.

_Almost exactly like her. Good job. _

Should he be getting to work?

He coughs, clears his throat, and sucks in a shaky inhale. His hands are twitching. The little tremors won't cease.

Maybe just a bit longer…

He moves on to Steve. Harry experiences a bit of trouble with the Captain's hair, but manages to get it eventually.

_**What about Nick Fury?**_

_Eh, why not._

Bruce has barely enough energy to laugh heartily when Harry sketches a little chibi version of the man in the uppermost left corner of the page, grumpy and scowling, little fists waving in the air as the coat flares around the stubby ankles.

_Please hold onto this—I want to be able to look at the entire thing sometime later as well._

Outside the lab, Bruce hears the sound of the thick steel door sweeping open. The stiff rubber soles of the standard shoes that all the Agents wear make distinctive solid tapping noises on the metal flooring, and Bruce listens to a multitude of them making their way with brisk haste down the hall.

Harry's reply to his request is uncurling across the page, but Bruce doesn't look—he can't, because his mind goes temporarily blank when a platoon of fully dressed soldiers escort a prisoner past the lab.

Even at a distance, with 3-inch thick windows between them, the deadly elegance and poise of the tall man seeps into the room, commanding full attention. Something winds and twists in the atmosphere—Bruce can feel it, dark and sinister and malevolent.

Even handcuffed and captured, Loki absolutely _reeks_ of power and control.

As if sensing Bruce's gaze, the man twists his head in a languid movement, sharp eyes settling on his frame. Recognition sparks in the slightly sunken eyes. A derisive, knowing smirk curls the pale lips pressed together in a thin line.

Bruce, sensing the power play, does not look away.

A moment later, Loki's startlingly penetrating eyes sink downwards, settling on the diary in Bruce's hands. Bruce realizes at that moment just how out of place the weathered, old-fashioned book looks on this futuristic ship, in the middle of up-to-date technology.

Loki's eyes contract fractionally, and a palpable tenseness seems to stiffen his entire slim frame, even as a particularly bold soldier shoves him forward to keep up the quick pace.

Curiosity and confusion glimmer in the dark depths of those irises, but the shark smile only widens, bloodless lips parting to reveal gleaming white teeth.

Loki's eyes flit back to Bruce's, and there is a _I-know-something-you-don't-know _smugness that absolutely cloaks the man.

Loki starts to laugh softly; a low, sensuous noise that just screams mischief. Bruce hears it through the open lab door.

Then, Loki has suddenly passed the windows, and the last of the soldiers disappear, hidden behind the walls of the corridor. Bruce is still, even as he hears the door at the opposite end of the corridor open, the feet tramping through, the sudden silence that is too loud, too heavy.

He looks down at the opened diary held in his hands. An awful sense of foreboding rears within him, nearly choking.

Something is very wrong.

**.**

**Bonus: Loki**

**.**

Even as he converses with Nick Fury, the imposing director of the esteemed SHIELD, one of the biggest possible threats to his plan, Loki's intelligent mind is not entirely there. He pays enough attention to make cutting sneers and lofty remarks, look towards the camera and aim a taunt at the beast that surely watches the confrontation, but that is it.

Loki is puzzled.

Well, not so much puzzled as intrigued, and Loki is very, _very_ intrigued.

He was not aware that any magical artifacts existed on Earth.

And while the existence of something magical may be interesting, it did not warrant the current attention Loki was paying to it.

No… that book, held so familiarly, so _carelessly, _in the beast's hands… it was not just utterly steeped in magic, swathed so thickly that Loki could not help but hungrily drink in its powerful aura, but it was so decisively _dark_.

As a skilled magic user, Loki has long since gained the ability of seeing Taints—or, that is, the trails and evidence left behind by magic, like footprints in sand.

And he most certainly caught a glimpse.

Dark and threatening and tainted and black and _chilling._

And yet, like a spark springing from a hungry fire, a glimpse of something—not light, not white at all, but a definitive shade of gray—flitted from within the dark mass.

Young, innocent magic, swaddled in taint.

How paradoxical. How _intriguing_.

And yet the mystery continues. For not only was the beast holding an extremely powerful magical item… but the item was _feeding _off the man, like a parasite enjoying a meal from its host.

Loki had seen it in the fleeting glimpse he'd managed to catch. The darkness emanating from the innocuous leather-bound book was attached to Banner, the semi-transparent tendrils seemingly piercing the living body in random points, though most clustered on the chest, fighting for space near the heart.

The diary, whether on purpose or not, is stealing Banner's energy, growing stronger and more sated with every passing minute.

Loki leans back his head, a frosty smile adorning his fine features.

'_Fascinating_.'

**.**

**.**

**AN: THERE IS FANART. LOVELY, INCREDIBLE FANART. **

**Visit deviantart to see it. The link won't show up no matter what I do, so I think if you type 'Ink Stains Harry Avengers' or something like that in the site's search bar, they;ll show up. KEEP IT COMING you LOVELY people! Go comment on their pieces!**

**THE PARTY CAN START NOW, LOKI IS HERE.**

**None of you may claim that technology does not hate me, for now both of my laptops have decided to go psycho and I am forced to use my older brother's laptop, which now gives him leverage for future favors. Darn. **

**You all better be thankful that I love all of you so much.**

**In this chapter, we see LOKI EEEK and I gave a bit of a prompt that many people have requested—Harry drawing the Avengers. He'll add to the sketch as the plot wears on. **

**Good morning, good night, and good afternoon, my friends. I am off to bed to rest my aching back (that chair is still uncomfortable as ever). **


	8. Realizations and the Infamous Stark

**AN: So, my vacation went well. :D **

**This measly story is in 40 communities now. Mind equals blown. **

**My heart hurts. This chapter—right in the feels—I apologize in advance for the overload of angst that will shower this and the following chapters. Good news: we meet Tony. **

**Bad news: umm… kinda… everything else…**

**I've never made myself cry before while writing something, but I teared up during this one…**

**I would say my usual 'enjoy,' but somehow, I don't think you will…**

**RECOMMENDED SONGS: The Grey, by Icon for Hire, and So Cold, by Ben Cocks. Again, both clean lyrics, so don't worry.**

**FANART LINKS (Obviously, remove the spaces): **

**(That http then colon then ****slash slash ****www crap) /art/Ink-Stains-388407838**

******(That http then colon then ****slash slash ****www crap) ****deviantart art / HP- Inked- Stains-3 898 589 34. **

**********(That http then colon then ****slash slash ****www crap) quetzalcoatls . deviantart art/ Ink- Stains- 388 356 542  
**

**********And now, a word from our favorite wizard...**

**********Harry: "Keep the art coming, amazing people. It makes enduring my time in the diary a little easier."**

**********This chapter is dedicated to Kimichan13, who has had lovely conversations with me and inspired my writing for this story multiple times.**

**********(PS: I'm the type of authoress who loves to talk with anyone. If you ever want to talk to me, even just for kicks, go ahead and PM me and we'll chat. (:))**

**********.**

**********.**

"He really grows on you, doesn't he?" Bruce comments, after the security feed of Loki conversing with Director Fury freezes. A wry, humorless smile tightens Bruce's jaw. Shadows lurk under his pupils, swimming in his green irises. His heart races frantically in his chest, the beast _(—"the mindless beast"—)_ pacing angrily in the shadowed confines of his mind.

'_Yup,' _Harry-voice agrees with him. Bruce imagines his voice as young and cynical, currently drawn and shuttered in cold anger.

Bruce closes his eyes wearily, slacking his shoulders as he paces back and forth, one hand propped up to stroke his stubbly chin. But pacing only heightens the anxiety so he sinks into a chair with a small huff.

He places Harry—the diary—directly in front of him on the round table's high deck, only inches from his left hand. Within quick and easy reach. At the mere thought of the trapped child, his fingers twitch, inching towards the leather-bound book. When did he become so antsy about it? When did it start bothering him insistently whenever the diary is out of sight? It honestly feels weird not cradling it in his hands.

He opens his eyes briefly, catching Natasha looking at it inquisitively. Unconsciously, his hand pulls it towards him, plopping it into his lap, shielding it under the table.

The woman arches a thin, shaped brow in response, tilting her head.

Bruce's headache returns with pounding force, and he groans, dropping his face into his hands. His cool skin feels blessedly cold against his flushed face.

It's definite; he's come down with something.

"Dr. Banner? Are you all right?"

'_Captain America_,' Bruce thinks hazily. The diary is so warm in his lap. '_Right—meeting. Loki. Tesseract. Cage.'_

Fresh memories, _fresh pain, _flickers across the backs of his closed eyelids at breakneck speed.

_("An impressive cage. Not built, I think, for me.")_

_("The mindless _beast. _Makes play he's still a man.")_

_("Built for something a lot stronger than you.")_

_("—Real power—")_

_("Oh, I've heard.")_

"Just a headache," Bruce mutters in response, removing his glasses to grind the pads of his thumbs into his eyelids. The gritty feeling in his eyes refuses to dissipate.

Loki's poisonous whispers swirl gleefully in his mind, like wisps of smoke clouding his sight, stirring the pot of steady-burning anger that churns Bruce's stomach.

The Monster stirs. Heavy, coarse breathing rasps faintly in Bruce's ears, echoing from the shrouded corners of his mind. That _something_ in Bruce's head is hoisting itself upwards, emerging like a provoked bear from its winter cave. Emerald green flashes across the backs of Bruce's closed eyelids.

He's tired—and—and just so _angry_. Angry at Loki, angry at himself for getting into this mess, angry at Fury for building him _a freaking cage—_

'_No, no, no, not here, not now. I'm in control. __**I'm in control.'**_

_In. Out. In. Out._

And he is. He is always angry, but that does not give him permission—does not give him the _right_—to take it out on everyone else.

The Monster's faint, harsh breathing hitches in aggravation—Bruce tunes out the conversation for a moment—and recedes unhappily, thick green fingers loosening from their purchases, from the crags and crannies in the dark cliff—and sinks back into the abyss, swayed but not forgotten.

Bruce relaxes, a flicker of smug triumph lifting his spirits for a moment. Has he really done it at last? Learned to control the rage, the Monster, the Hulk?

His heart calms.

He's got an awful lot of thinking to do later on, he knows, but right now isn't the time. _(He wistfully wishes that he wouldn't have to think about it in the first place.) _SHIELD needs his full and undivided attention.

"Dr. Banner? You getting this?"

Steve's voice jolts his thoughts back to earth, and Bruce hides a wince, habitually cleaning his glasses with the hem of his purple shirt to hide his embarrassment.

"Ah—yes—anyway, I don't think we should be focusing on Loki—that guy's brain is a bag full of cats—"

'—_Nice one—"_ Harry-voice interjects.

"—You could _smell_ crazy on him."

And yeah, it feels _good_ insulting that sociopath.

"Take care how you speak," Thor rumbles warningly, taking a few steps towards Bruce. The demigod's boots thud quietly on the metal-webbed floor. "He's beyond reason, but he's of Asgard." Pain flickers across the blonde's steel-blue eyes. "And he is my brother."

"He killed eighty people in two days," Natasha throws at him in immediate response, her detached demeanor warring with the tightness of her voice.

Thor winces, shrugs one shoulder, looking down self-consciously. "He's adopted?"

"I think it's about the mechanics," Bruce supplies helpfully, steering the conversation back on track. "Iridium. What do they need the iridium fo—?"

"—It's a stabilizing agent." Bruce turns in his seat, watches in disbelief as a sharply dressed man swaggers into the room, making small talk with that one agent—Phil. Coulson. Agent Coulson.

Tony Stark.

Freaking Iron Man.

_(The headache increases exponentially.)_

"Means, the portal won't collapse in on itself." Tony slips his hands into his dark Armani jacket, looking away from Bruce and deadpanning, "Like it did at SHIELD."

Wait—what—?

"No hard feelings, Point Break," Stark nonchalantly targets at Thor, gesturing with one hand. He lightly smacks the demigod's defined bicep as he passes. "You got a mean swing." He reaches the front of the room, pivots on his polished shoes. "Also, means the portal can open wide, and stay open as long as Loki wants."

Well, crap.

"That man is playing Galaga!" Stark suddenly accuses off-handedly, jauntily pointing a finger over the metal railing of the balcony, aiming at one of the many agents seated in front of the computer banks below them. Bruce cranes his neck and watches the man guiltily close the game. "Thought we wouldn't notice, but we did…"

The sudden switch in topics has thrown everyone off track. Bruce steals a look at Maria Hill, Fury's assistant director or something, and watches her close her eyes tightly and hiss a long-suffering sigh.

Stark sways, momentarily covering one eye as he surveys the slim computers fixed to the master control station. "How does Fury even see these?"

"He turns," Hill retorts, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Eh. Sounds exhausting."

Stark rambles on, and Bruce zones out for just a moment, glancing down at the diary in his lap. He wants—needs—to talk to Harry. This whole ordeal is draining, and he needs to vent.

"Does Loki need any particular kind of power source?" Captain cuts in, heading off the next flow of egotistical sewage from Stark's lips.

Bruce tears his eyes away, steels his concentration, though the room looks slightly blurry to him. He blinks rapidly to clear it.

"He'd have to heat the cube to—to—" Thinking is hard, "—to a hundred and twenty million Kelvin just to break through the coulomb barrier," Bruce tosses in, inwardly wondering at how Loki could possibly manage to do that. Maybe the man knows some kind of extreme heat spell? He makes a note to ask Harry later on.

"Unless," Stark drawls, "Selvig has figured out how to stabilize the quantum tunneling effect."

"Well," Bruce returns, grinning internally that someone can finally keep up, "if he could do that he could achieve heavy ion fusion at any reactor on the planet."

"Finally! Someone who speaks English!"

"Is that what just happened?" Steve mutters. Bruce smirks at this as he stands, moving in to shake Tony Stark's hand.

"S'good to meet you, Dr. Banner," Stark murmurs as they shake. His hands are dry and calloused, an engineer's hands. "Your work on atomical collisions is unparalleled—and I'm a huge fan of the way you lose control and, you know, turn into a big green rage monster."

Good feeling gone.

Bruce looks away, jumping his eyebrows. "Thanks."

"By the way, very nice diary. I'm assuming that's where you keep your research—? C'mon, let's see it—" Stark reaches for it. Bruce moves it out of the way instantly, shocked. He doesn't remember picking it up with him.

"Um, no, that's—personal—"

_Shoot._

"Oooh, some angst about the Hulk, some love notes, some breath-taking theories—interesting, Doctor. I'll be sure to take a peek later." Stark winks. Bruce grimaces.

"Dr. Banner is only here to track the cube," Nick Fury inserts as he swoops into the room, black leather trench coat flaring behind him as he enters. "I was hoping you could join him."

_Double Shoot._

Stark grins, clapping Bruce on the shoulder. "Oooh, goodie, this'll be _fun_."

**.**

**Harry**

**.**

Bruce hasn't written to him for a while.

It feels like years.

Harry floats, and thinks, and thinks some more. His mind wants to skirt around the subject at hand—the fact that, for a split second, he _had_ a hand—because after decades and decades of aching disappointment, it almost hurts to raise his hopes again.

But this—this might be his chance.

His chance to break free, escape, get out of this god-forsaken book—

'_But how?' _An insistent, curious little voice—it sounds suspiciously like what Harry imagines Bruce's voice to be like—needles at him. _'Why now? What's different? After all this time, why is this happening now?'_

'_I don't care,' _Harry wants to retort, because of one sweet word—_FREEDOM—_but he is curious as well, and maybe the thought of figuring out the inner workings of the diary tempts him, so he calms himself and ponders.

'_What's… different…? Well, I feel good, and I finally have someone to talk to regularly, someone who tells me everything, someone who I know nearly everything about even though I've never met him, someone who…'_

Cold fingers grip Harry's mind. His thinking process slows in dawning comprehension, stutters to a stop. The white atmosphere darkens to a foggy, ominous gray.

'_S-someone who… pours out… his heart… to… me…'_

And just like that, memories—some of _Harry's_ memories—rise, uncalled, unwanted, to the forefront of his mind…

_(Late nights talking to Tom, confessing everything, conversing in classes, in the common room, even in bed when everyone else is asleep—getting tired, so tired, but he wants—needs—to talk to Tom—has to tell him everything—)_

_(__**–How curious, Harry. And what did you do then? How did you feel?)**_

_(He is so tired, his grades are slipping, and he feels sick constantly—Dumbledore looks at him in concern every now and then from the teacher's table in the Great Hall—)_

_(Later, when Tom is free and Harry is now trapped, when Tom occasionally picks up the quill to mock him, to feed—'You foolish, foolish little boy—pouring out your heart to me was your biggest, most final mistake.'—and Harry is horrified, so scared, so lonely—__**'Please Tom, please let me out—please—I don't understand why you're doing this—')**_

Bruce pours out his heart.

Harry feels good.

Bruce is tired.

Bruce _pours_ out his _heart_.

Harry feels _good_.

Bruce is _tired_.

The disjointed thoughts jumble in Harry's mind, chasing each other dazedly, like debris caught in the rage of a tornado, circling, cycling, repeating blandly in the hopes of understanding, of sinking in.

'_No… no, God, please, no… not this, anything but this…!'_

The thought is so horrible, he can't say it—

_(Say it—)_

Please, don't make him, don't make him say it, because if he says it, it will become official—he didn't mean for it to happen, he didn't want it!—

_(SAY IT—)_

He didn't intend to—to f-fee—

_**(SAY IT!)**_

_HE DIDN'T MEAN TO FEED OFF HIM! _

His consciousness trembles, shock so great that the white void somehow seems to ripple from it—He didn't mean it, he really didn't. He wouldn't—would never—never ever—!

Unnoticed by him, his distressed consciousness flails, and ink splatters across the sky, forming dripping, jagged, choppy snippets. _(I __**D**__i__**D**__n'T Me__**A**__N T__**O**__ T__**h**__IS Sh__**o**__UL__**d**__N'__**T**__ h__**A**__Pp__**E**__N __**I**__ D__**I**__d__**N**__'__**T**__ W__**A**__n__**T**__ t__**HI**__s W__**h**__Y __**I**__S __**T**__hi__**S**__ Wh__**Y**__ w__**H**__y H__**At**__E I hAT__**e **__M__**YSe**__LF I __**dO**__N't Wa__**Nt**__ T__**h**__I__**S**__ Pl__**e**__As__**E**__ s__**TO**__p Ho__**W**__ D__**o**__ I sT__**Op **__H__**A**__tE I d__**I**__Dn'__**T**__ M__**E**__aN—)_

Like an agile doe leaping over a stream, a thought—a _selfish_, _horrible_, _appalling_ thought, lands in his mind, plants its seeds.

_(I HAD A HAND. I HAD A REAL HAND. I WAS OUT OF THE DIARY.)_

The void shudders. Harry can't process—doesn't want to process—it feels like he's falling, and Tom's memories, though finished, though he knows them all, wrap around him lovingly, whispering poisonous things in his mind, gently pulling him down…

… but he doesn't want to, doesn't want to sink again… he needs to think, to plan…

(—he can't—)

He forcefully, for the first **t** i **m** e e **v** e **r**

**blacks out-**

**...**

_(And it's so quiet now.)_

**.**

**.**

**AN:**

…

**I hate myself…**

**Review if you want to cheer Harry up… ignore if you enjoy his pain, you sick sadist…**


	9. Harry's Note

**AN: This story has 613 reviews. Last chapter received 129 reviews. This story is in 48 communities, and has somehow garnered 1,350 alerts. I tell you this not to brag, but to ask you all a simple question: why? I'll be honest, I'm winging most of this story. Most of your contribute your plot ideas, and I usually take them and twist them and mold them into something I like. The fact that you all have been so kind is just stunning to me.**

**HIGHLY HIGHLY HIGHLY RECOMMENDED SONGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: ****Curl Up and Die, by Relient K. The Grey, by Icon for Hire.**

**Sorry about the incoming angst…**

**Disclaimer: I'm a teenage girl with a laptop and a questionable mind. I own nothing. **

**Also, still NO SLASH. Just to reiterate.**

**IMPORTANT: I posted a new story, Ink Splatters, which actually relates directly to this fic. If you're curious, go check it out. :)**

**EDIT: 8/15/13- I HAVE MADE FANART! Hahaha! It is linked on my profile. ALL OF THE BEAUTIFUL FANART FOR THIS STORY HAS BEEN LINKED ON MY PROFILE PAGE.**

**.**

**a·ban·don (-bndn)**

1. To withdraw one's support or help from, especially in spite of duty, allegiance, or responsibility; desert: abandon a friend in trouble.

2. To give up by leaving or ceasing to operate or inhabit, especially as a result of danger or other impending threat: abandoned the ship.

3. To surrender one's claim to, right to, or interest in; give up entirely. See Synonyms at relinquish.

4. To cease trying to continue; desist from: abandoned the search for the missing hiker.

5. To yield (oneself) completely, as to emotion.

**.**

**Harry**

**.**

Harry has never slept in the void before. The closest he's come to are his pointless daydreams, or absorbing Tom's memories. Sleep is something foreign to him, an activity that belongs in the past, with real-Harry. It is out of his grasp, inaccessible, sorely missed but never retrieved.  
Besides, he doesn't really think this could really be considered sleep. It certainly doesn't feel the way he remembers it.

Maybe his sudden 'blackout', for lack of a better word, is due to his emotional breakdown, like a piece of technology overloading and force-quitting. Or maybe because he's getting stronger by the hour, and this weakens the Wall that separates him from reality.

Whatever the reason, his blackout is _not_ enjoyable.

In fact, it is something horrifying. Because Harry does not dream, nor does he have nightmares—for a long, terrifying time, _he does not exist at all. _

He's painfully aware of the fact that he doesn't have a body, hasn't had one for a long time, and maybe he'd a bit accustomed to that, but he's always had his _mind_, his intelligence. He's always been able to think, to form conscious sentences, to sing and hum and babble to himself.

But one does not think fluidly while asleep, and Harry is no different.

So, when his consciousness snaps back to working order an indiscernible amount of time later, Harry mentally trembles in fear. That was horrible. Scarring.

'_If that is what sleep is like,' _Harry thinks to himself, _'then I wish to never ever fall asleep ever.'_

And Harry is shaken, because, for a moment, he was truly dead. Gone. Like he had died and his soul had erased itself. The void pulses around him, and, as the last of the darkness morphs into the usual graceful ribbons of black ink, he realizes that something about the void is different.

There are _ropes_.

Two black ropes, rough-fibered and thick, that drop down from the high "ceiling" of the atmosphere. Harry angles his self, so he can sort of peer downwards, and shock ripples through him immediately.

The void is displaced around him, shimmering like the air over a blacktop on an extremely hot day. And, if he strains his consciousness, he can make out a very faint outline.

A very faint outline of a _body._

The black ropes dangle from the sky, ending at the silhouette's hands, where they smoothly transition into a marionette's handles, and Harry's ghost-fingers are clenched tightly around the sticks of black wood.

And—and if he kind of concentrates, he, ever so slightly, can _feel_ them: he can lightly feel the smooth grain of the polished wooden handles underneath his fingers, can feel the rough fibers of the ropes brushing against the tops of his phantom hands. The wraith-like projection of his body has two bent pillars that must be legs, and he has a faint torso, and those shadowy hands holding the puppet strings are most definitely attached to arms, which attach to shoulders, which leads to a neck, which undoubtedly supports a head—

'_I'm insane,'_ Harry thinks deliriously as he focuses his willpower, and the left arm twitches in response. _'I've finally lost my Gobstones.'_

Well, he thinks to himself, at least he held out this long. And if madness means having a hazy impression of a body, he'll take that over sanity any day.

It takes him a while to recover some muscle memory, and he has to mentally force it to happen, but eventually, his 'arms' lift upwards, floating like seaweed, pulling the obsidian ropes in their wake. His arms are two charcoal lumps, but he can see faint swells of definition, slits where his fingers break off into chunky cylinders.

Upon closer inspection, he notices that his 'hands' are actually bonded seamlessly to the handles, the flesh melting perfectly into the 'wood'. He cannot let go even if he wanted to. But he does not dwell on that very long, because—

'_I have a body,' _Harry thinks, and he is giggling to himself, giggling madly, a low laughter that rings with desperation and echoes in his skull. _'I. HAVE. A. BODY.'_

He wills his arms to move again, floating high over his head, and he actually feels (though the sensation is muted, nearly numb) the relief of the ropes' tension, watches them slacken slightly.

'_Down,' _he commands vigorously to himself, and the weight of his intent makes the arms drop like stones in water. The ropes tighten, and he suddenly realizes, even though the ropes ascend so high up that they disappear into nothingness, that they are attached to something, something solid and heavy that adds resistance when he yanks.

And that is when he remembers.

'_Bruce,' _he thinks in dawning dread, just now sensing the hum of energy travelling from that solid anchor way above him all the way down to his arms, to his 'body', the ropes acting like some kind of conduit. _'Oh, Bruce.'_

He understands immediately. He does not allow himself to fade out from enormous shock. He will not be weak again, never weak again, not like the way he was when T- Tom left him here in this prison.

He will think things through this time, consider all his options, and make a plan of action. Ignoring that painful tugging at his proverbial heart (maybe not so proverbial in the near future) will be hard, but he must. He must…

'_Must what?'_

'_Okay, okay, think. Focus. Ignore those legs that you can bend, ignore those arms, those fingers, those faint wiggly lumps that are toes—oh, dear Merlin, this is so hard—'_

Two immediately obvious options form.

1. Ignore his pestering feelings and continue to feed, likely leading to switching places with Bruce. _(Leading to getting a body, getting veins and blood and bone and skin, to fresh air, to working lungs and a beating heart—)_

—_Or—_

2. Break everything off. Withdraw again. Refuse to engage with Bruce anymore. Probably submerge himself into Tom's memories all over again so at least he won't feel Bruce calling him. Lose his strength, this newly forming body, and let Bruce (hopefully) recover.

'_Merlin.'_

He doesn't want to hurt Bruce—never did, never wanted to, not at all, and Bruce is the only friend Harry has had since his imprisonment. Bruce is easygoing, laidback, curious about the magical world, knows how to respect boundaries, and genuinely cares for him. Bruce is the one who describes the outside world as best as he can, always cheers Harry up… Bruce is his haven, his safety net, the reason Harry refuses to wither away.

Bruce is _life_.

And yet… and yet… Harry is forming a body. A _body_… and maybe—_maybe_—that will lead to his freedom, and he can't help but envision himself clawing his way out of the cursed pages, imagines gulping in his first breath of air, and he wants it so very very badly that it _hurts_.

And if… and if Bruce is truly his friend, like he so vehemently reminds Harry all the time, then… then surely he would understand, right? He would do it on his own free will? He would know the pain Harry has endured, would know that Harry rightfully doesn't belong in that diary—

_(—but neither does Bruce—)_

—and he would gladly switch places, right? Right?!

He swings his arms loosely, working on his control as he thinks. The ropes sway with his balled hands, and he mentally slaps himself for his stupidity as he makes the sickening connection.

Ropes. A marionette's controls. Ropes that lead to Bruce. And Harry, whether he wants to or not, holds the reins. Bruce is a _puppet_ to him.

Harry cowers from this awful realization.

Another option springs to mind.

3. Ask for help.

And it is almost funny how quickly Harry's doubts rear up at that, spitting ridicules and venomous derisions.

'_Are you crazy? Bruce will hate you the moment you tell him! Why would he ever help a disgusting, pathetic leech like you? He'll never trust you again!'_

'_Wouldn't Bruce already be trying to figure out a way to get you out? I mean, obviously, the man is brilliant, but he knows absolutely nothing about magic, and he can't do anything to help you. You'd just make him feel bad at his own helplessness.'_

'_You're detrimental, you're an inconvenience. Bruce will toss you the moment you tell him.'_

'_Since when has "asking for help" ever done you any good? No one ever helps. Tom certainly never helped. No one even __**likes**__ you. You're just an outlet for Bruce, something that Bruce uses so that he doesn't feel lonely himself. An entertaining __**toy**__.'_

Harry, with trouble, waves away the pessimistic, scornful thoughts, though each one plucks a heartstring cruelly and resonates in his soul.

Okay, then. Two options.

Two choices.

Harry looks down, waves his arms, tugs lightly on the rope, and sighs in bliss at the energy sluggishly feeding into him. '_It's strange,'_ he thinks, '_how one can feel so strong and so nauseas at the same time.'_

He kicks his half-formed, blurry legs for old-time's sake, and forcefully repels his consciousness from the diary once again, careful not to do so violently in case of incurring another blackout.

He daydreams himself to be running across an open meadow at dawn, and the orange sunlight sparkles in the dew, and his bare feet—he can almost feel them, if he tries hard enough—are slick with moisture and blades of wet grass cling to his skin, and he nearly feels the soles of his feet pressing into the cool earth.

He fondly thinks of every moment with Bruce, every secret shared, every sentence written, every drawing and every sketch.

And… and Harry is still running, his arms wind-milling at his sides—he can feel wind blowing through his hair, can feel his chest heaving with wonderful exertion. As each foot lands, he remembers a quiet moment with Bruce, every time that man made him want to laugh or cry with joy and happiness.

_(Is he dreaming? This feels so real. Is he hallucinating? Dying?)_

Harry breathes, finds a rhythm, and runs. Birdsong twitters in his ears, the watery rays of the rising sun warm the skin of his upturned face.

And suddenly, an object rises out of the glittering grass—no, not an object, Harry realizes as his pounding feet carry him closer—a person. _Him. _

The Harry lookalike is sitting in the grass, legs casually folded criss-cross-applesauce, nimble fingers absently weaving a daisy chain. Harry skids to a stop in front of him, panting for breath. Everything is surreal.

"_Hello," _the lookalike says, and looks up, and for the first time, Harry sees why everyone he's ever met used to compliment his eyes—their light green color is truly piercing. The lookalike smiles brightly, and adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

He seems younger somehow. A youthful ignorance relaxes the lookalike's posture, and he seems so fragile, so small and young. So innocent. There is no trace of bitterness to shadow his cherubic face, only serenity and bliss.

Harry sinks to his knees in the grass, awed by this apparition. He marvels at the carefree smile, at the laidback posture.

'_Am I hallucinating?' _He asks tentatively.

The lookalike nods. Adds another flower to the chain.

"_Mhmm. You're under a lot of stress. This is your way of making a choice."_

Harry fists the dew-soaked grass, crushes the blades so he can feel their texture.

'_This feels so real,' _he says, still awestruck, still astounded.

The lookalike shrugs.

"_Hallucinations can be very vivid, I've heard."_

'_Who are you?' _Harry asks, and he doesn't feel foolish at all in asking that, because how on earth could this loving child, this innocent being, _possibly_ be him?

"_I'm you," _the lookalike responds dreamily, laying flat on his back to look up at the impossibly clear blue sky. Harry copies him a moment later. His head is buzzing, like he's been drinking champagne. _"Or at least, the 'you' before the diary."_

'_I used to be like that?' _Harry asks in stark disbelief, and for some reason, his eyes immediately blur, his vision dancing. He blinks, and moisture spills over his lower lids, silently tracking down his face, dropping off to join the glimmering beads of dew decorating the meadow grass. _'But you're so happy.'_

"_I know."_

'_And innocent. And trusting. And… and peaceful.'_

"_Uh-huh."_

Harry is stricken mute for a moment by the clogging in his throat. He lets the tears fall. Everything that's he's lost is sitting _right in front of him_. He lifts a fist to rub at his eyes, scrub away the persistent tears.

'_I was so happy,' _he manages. _'But Tom—he hurt me—I forgot how to be so relaxed, so peaceful!' _More tears course down his cheeks. His shoulders shake. _'I lost the most important part of being human!'_

And his sorrow is so great, so deep, that he cannot possibly feel anger as well, so he lets himself grieve, tears of remorse and longing carving paths down his face.

"_I know," _the lookalike says simply, and he rolls over on his side so that he can look at Harry easily.

'_What do I do?' _Harry sniffles, turning his tear-streaked face to his copy. _'I don't know what to do.'_

The lookalike gives him another blinding smile. _"It's okay. You forgot me, but I'm still here. I still exist. And even though you locked me away, I've always been here. And now that you've let me out, you know what to do."_ The lookalike stretches out a hand, grabs Harry's palm, and gives it a comforting squeeze.

'_I do?'_

The lookalike meets Harry's eyes again.

'_Oh,' _Harry croaks out as understanding and comprehension dawn. The beautiful scenery around him wobbles, temporarily flashing back to the void. Harry has the curious sensation of being in two places at once.

'_I understand.'_

The lookalike smiles again, and props the daisy chin on Harry's head with tender movements. For a moment, the double's face flickers, switching to that of a beautiful red-haired woman with emerald eyes and a loving, sweet smile.

Harry blinks, and he is in the void again.

His mind aches.

But he knows what to do.

He steels his mind, readies himself, tucks away his turbulent emotions, gathers ink, and starts to write.

**.**

**Bruce**

**.**

Bruce is working in the lab, scanning Loki's scepter to get a read of the massive energy waves it emanates. He keeps one eye on the scepter, and one eye on the lab's other occupant—Tony Stark.

Stark has been relatively quiet so far, making occasional sassy remarks, but mostly, the man works, constantly checking stats on the slim computer screens.

And so Bruce gradually drops his guard, focusing on his work, and this is his mistake. A painful jolt to his ribs shocks him out of his awe at the readings, and he jumps, exclaiming in pain. The Hulk blearily opens an eye inquisitively, and he hurriedly rushes to force it back to sleep. _'What on earth is Stark thin—'_

"Got it! Got it!" Stark crows, and too late, Bruce sees the slender black diary in Tony's calloused hands. The man dances away, laughing. "Geez, Banner, you really need to get your guard up—although the lid you have on the Hulk is rather impressive. What's your secret? Yoga? Meditation? Mellow jazz, bongo drums, bag of weed? Herbal tea?"

"Give. It. Back." Bruce hisses as he advances around the table, arms outstretched.

Stark rolls his eyes. If he is aware of the palpable danger in the room, he ignores it. "Oh come on, how bad can it be?"

"Stark, you don't understand—_stoppit_! Don't you _dare_ read th—"

Stark clears his throat, flips to the first page, even as he continually backs away, even hooking an ankle around the leg of the table and jerking it in Bruce's path. Bruce struggles to tamp down the Hulk, who he can feel gliding from the abyss, curious.

"'Bruce, I have something to confess. I have been keeping an awful secret from you'—ooh, this is _interesting_."

"Wait—what?" Bruce freezes, scalpel still held threateningly in his hand. Is Stark making this up? The diary should be empty.

"'You see, I've told you how Tom drained me, how he used the life force stolen from me to switch our positions. Please, oh Merlin please, believe me when I say I never wanted to do that to you. Never ever. Recently, you told me how tired you've been. And I haven't told you this, either, but I've been getting stronger.'"

Bruce is still. Stark falters, perhaps seeing the dazed look in the gamma radiation specialist's eyes, and continues reading in a quieter, more confused tone.

"'I've realized that I've been feeding off of you, much like Tom did to me. That's why you've been getting so tired and such awful headaches. And so, after a long time of mulling it over, I've come to the conclusion that I care about you more than I care about my own freedom. The only way that I can help you, can possibly undo the damage I've wrought so wrongfully upon you, is to stop our exchanges."

Stark stops, flutters the pages nervously between his fingers, knowing he has stumbled upon something extremely personal. He awkwardly clears his throat. Bruce looks strangely frail and gaunt in the harsh florescent lights. An emotion Tony has not felt in a long while—guilt—worms in his gut. Perhaps, this time, in his quest to be carefree and careless, Tony has gone too far. "I… um… here…" He holds the diary out.

"…No…"

Tony looks at Bruce in confusion. Bruce gestures weakly.

"Keep going… I need to hear it…"

And after a moment of hesitation, Stark obliges, lodging the sarcastic persona back into place, brushing away the guilt. He shrugs his shoulders, leans jauntily against the stainless steel table. "Well, if you insist…"

"'This is very hard, believe me. I apologize in advance if this hurts you. I'm sorry for the inconvenience. Please know that meeting you was possibly the best thing that could have happened to me. You helped me when I was weak, made me realize that there is more to life than holding grudges. Who knows? Maybe one day, someone will find a cure for me, and I swear to you now: if that happens, _I'll search the entire earth until I find you_.'"

Unconsciously, Tony has changed his voice from something aloof and humorous to a solemn, serious tone, fluctuating his pitch and speed accordingly to make the note more realistic.

"'Thank you for everything. Thank you so much. I'm sorry that I can't do anything else for you. I'll always remember you fondly, and, if it's possible, I hope you'll do the same for me, though I understand if you hate me after this. I'd hate me too, so it's okay. Honestly.

I'm severing the energy that is feeding off of you the moment you read this, all right? Then you won't ever hear from me again, I swear. Live a good, long life, and make some good memories. Don't let this hold you back.

Bye Bruce.

Sincerely, Harry Potter.'"

The note ends. Bruce waits to hear more, a _just kidding, _or a _I can't believe you fell for that! _but Stark is respectfully silent. He quietly accepts the diary when Stark hands it to him.

"Banner… uh, Bruce…"

Bruce folds in on himself like a paper curling up in a fire, the edges graying and disintegrating to ash. He is in shock. His headache prevents him from thinking clearly. He fumbles in his pocket for a pen, can't find one. What did he do with the last one? Where is it? He needs a pen, needs it now.

Stark again. "Banner, are you okay? You don't look so peachy… hey—Banner!"

His knees hit the floor hard. The kneecaps sting. He can't understand. What's going on?

'_Harry?'_

"A pen," he says tremulously, and his clammy, shaking hands find the lapels of Stark's jacket, pulling him close. "Please—I need a pen—my friend is—please—"

"Okay, okay, here's a pen… okay?"

Bruce feels it pressed into his palm, feels Stark back away a bit, but he doesn't care if he looks insane. He uncaps the utensil and presses the tip to the paper. His hand is shaking too badly to write. Harry's neatly penned note—_(emotionless)_—takes up nearly all of the first page, and it hurts to look at it, so Bruce flips until he sees merciful blankness.

_Harry? HARRY. Cut it out, this isn't funny. Stop it. Seriously. _

_Harry._

_HARRY!_

_ANSWER!_

_HARRY, PLEASE!_

Bruce waits, and waits, but the ink just _sits _there. _Just sits there, _as if the diary is a normal book, as if there isn't a little boy stuck inside its pages! The wet ink glistens. Black blood.

Stark reads over his shoulder, trying to be sneaky but failing miserably.

"It's… it's supposed to sink in…" Bruce mumbles, and he fumbles with the diary, spinning it in his hands so he can look at it every which way, find out what's wrong. "So why… isn't it…?"

"Banner!"

"It should disappear, Harry should suck it in… why isn't he? Harry? Harry, don't you dare do this, you stupid, moronic—! _Don't you dare do this to me!" _He slams a palm on the open page, the loud smack making Tony jump. Bruce tries to force the ink into the page—presses it hard with his palm—but his fingers come away coated, and the ink is now a smear across the crème page.

"No, no, no… disappear, disappear now, please—Harry—please—"

He flips back to the beginning, reads the note again, and his heart just hurts so bad—the Hulk is pacing agitatedly at the edges of the gorge, seeking release. His head aches—Stark puts a hand on his shoulder, but Bruce's ears are buzzing too much to hear anything—

The Diary suddenly quivers in his hands, and Bruce feels something _snap_, and the feeling is like removing a long-burrowed splinter, or popping a blister, or peeling tape off his skin. He doubles over, mouth open in a silent _o_, and the headache vanishes—_like magic—_and he feels strength, a wellness that has slowly left him over the past few weeks, return all at once, like a flood. It feels like someone has slashed a taut rope, and the frayed end is now hurtling back to him.

'_Stop. Harry, stop this. Don't you dare do this to me.'_

"Banner? BANNER!" Stark moves away from him slightly. The muted sound of shoes thumping against the metal floor. A door swings open.

"What's going on here?" Captain America. Steve.

"I don't know, there was this book, and I—I read something—and then he just _collapsed!"_

Bruce's fingers aren't exactly working right. They relax against his will, and the diary slips from his grasp, falling to the floor like a sack of potatoes, landing face-up with the note glaring at him accusingly. Vaguely, he sees Steve looming over him, followed by the others—his vision is falling apart, everything tilts—there's too much energy, his system is overloading, he can't handle the shock.

His cheek hits the cool metal floor a moment later.

**.**

**.**

**AN: I HAVE OFFICIALLY CHANGED SOME OF THE DIALOGUE AND EVENTS IN THE MOVIE. **

**So if you're wondering why Bruce and Tony's conversation went a bit differently than it did in the movie- this is an AU, and here, I HAVE THE POWER! **

**It must only get worse before it gets better. It will get better. I swear. I swear this to you now!**

**Geez… I feel really bad… teared up again during this chapter. So, next chapter, you can tentatively expect to have Fury and the Avengers hear Bruce's story. **

**I'll try to update quickly, but no promises. I've got a super busy two weeks up ahead, with work, and two MAJOR summer projects that need to be done for school. School starts August 26****th**** for me. :P**

**Review if you feel bad for Brucie. ;_; Or if you want to punch me. It's okay. I understand. I'd still write for you wonderful people.**


	10. (I Am Alone)

**A/N: Hey guys. *dodges tomato, punches, mustard, and everything else you imaginative people have threatened me with***

**I CAN EXPLAIN. **

**This is, without a doubt, the most stressful school year I've ever had. I'm a sophomore this year, and I stupidly thought, "Hey, I bet I could handle AP classes!" THEY. SUCK. BUTT. I barely have any free time and I'm pretty sure I've had a couple mental breakdowns so far. But I have this weird pride-thing that prevents me from dropping down to Honors... uggghhhhh. And my friends are always needing me to do assignments for them and my work hours have gone up like crazy so I don't even have weekends anymore and UGHHHHHH. **

**ANYWAY. Thank you all for your kind reviews. I think last chapter hit 200. WHAT. THE. PANCAKES. You are all so lovely! **

**NEWS-I made fanart for Ink Stains! Link is on my profile. Also, if you like Harry Potter, and if you like Lord of the Rings, go check out my story Visionary.**

**That is all.**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: Mentions of suicidal thoughts.**

**CHAPTER SONGS: "Take it Away," by Ashes Remain.**

**.**

**.**

_In his dreams, Bruce sees a boy. _

_A black-haired boy, with stunning green irises. Small and thin, but life seems to vibrate off him._

"_Harry," he thinks he says, because his lips are moving, but he can't hear himself. He kneels. The child—his form is blurry and indistinct at best, despite the obvious mop of messy black hair and laughing green eyes—runs towards him. Bruce thinks he smiles. _

_And then the ground rocks. _

_The ground is shaking, like an earthquake, and the floor that Bruce is standing on swells, carrying him upward. Bruce pitches forward, hands splayed on the surface—it feels rough, fibrous—paper? Parchment?_

_He is on a page. The page is flipping, with Bruce on it, and suddenly the world is tilting, and Bruce is sliding sideways, listening to a child's cry of horror. His feet leave the surface, but moments later, he lands on his back, spread-eagled on the opposite page. The sheet that he just fell from is crashing down over him. Bruce sees T.M.R. everywhere he looks. The sharp letters cut him like knives, green blood stains the pages. Bruce sees jaded, monstrous eyes looking back at him out of the growing puddle. _

_Harry is beside him, dwarfed in the shadow of the diary's slowly approaching page. He shakes Bruce's shoulder, but Bruce can't move, no matter how much he screams internally, he cannot twitch a muscle._

"_Bruce! Help me! Bruce! Please!" Harry screams, and the child is melting, melting and liquefying and dripping into black ink. Bruce watches the face sag, the black hair plastering to his undefined forehead and bleeding soulless glittering ink trails down the child's face, tainting every patch of skin that it travels over. He watches the thin arms splatter ever so softly and slowly and silently onto the fibrous parchment, and Harry is gasping for breath now, his lower jaw melting away, his green eyes wide and panicked and horrified—does he even have lungs anymore?—and—and then he is gone, nothing more than a massive ink blot on a page. Bruce's limp fingers dangle in the ink, in the blood, and he watches bleakly, hopelessly, as the page gently enfolds him, crashing over him like a wave._

_**.**_

_**.**_

"So let me get this straight."

Fury leans back in his chair, fingers intertwined, that single glaring eye focused solely on Bruce's bedraggled form.

"You were in possession of a magical artifact that housed the soul of a young boy _from another dimension."_ (Fury enunciates the last three words sharply, somewhat sarcastically). "You became friends with this boy, and over the course of a few months, found yourself feeling drained. Then this _boy_ admitted to sucking your soul dry to gain a physical form, severed ties, and now you can't contact him anymore."

Bruce finds meeting Fury's weighted stare is too difficult, so he looks elsewhere. Humiliation and grief rage fiercely inside him..

And yet, stubborn loyalty incites a slow burn of anger in him. He doesn't like the way Fury phrases it. The way Fury condenses everything that's happened in the past few months into a few simple, cut-and-dry sentences… Its brevity is jarring, and Bruce wants to yell that the situation was so much more complex, and that Harry is a _boy_, for Pete's sake, not some malevolent vampiric being intent on feasting on Bruce's soul.

_("At least," a little voice whispers slyly, "that's what you _think_. He was feeding off you from the start, maybe you really were nothing but a slaughter animal to him—if he was even a twelve year old child. You idiot, how could you fall for that?"_

'_Shut up,'_ Bruce mumbles to himself, and is surprised when he feels the Hulk drowsily stir, growling agreement. He and the Hulk never coincide on things, and the fact that is over the matter of Harry seems somewhat ironic.

"Yeah," Bruce says aloud, and then makes an effort to inject some life into his voice. "That's about it."

"Hmm." Fury says shortly, and then spins in his swivel chair, launching himself upright. "Well, Mr. Banner, the journal has been taken into custody, and I've got a team of bright scientists examining it—"

_(No no no no—)_

"—in efforts to shed some light on the matter. I hope that in the future, you can approach me directly upon coming into contact with such an artifact."

_(Shut up, just shut up.)_

"In the meantime, I hope you recover quickly. The world sure ain't gonna wait around for you to get up on your feet again, and we need you on the cube."

Bruce fists his hands in the hospital bed's white linen sheets, face burning, and says nothing as Fury closes the door behind him, cutting off the sound of his molded shoe soles hitting the floor. The room seems achingly empty.

_Beep…beep…beep…_

Bruce closes his eyes, feeling sick, wanting to be anywhere but the infirmary. He hates hospitals, hates needles, hates white linoleum floors and painful fluorescent lights and IV bags. He hates the little plastic pouch of orange juice with a cheerful animated cartoon orange (it seems so fake, so out of place in this cold, cruel world) meant to raise his blood sugar, hates the Velcro cuff around his wrist measuring his pulse.

He just _hates_.

And Bruce is lying there, staring up into the loathsome fluorescent lights, hating the world and hating himself, when Stark steps through the door minutes later.

"Hey," the billionaire offers lamely, moving to claim the swivel chair Fury had left behind. Bruce says nothing, too afraid that if he opens his mouth, he might scream.

_Beep… beep… beep…_

"I just wanted to apologize… for… well, you know. I'm sorry about Harry."

'_Stark is way out of his element,'_ Bruce thinks with detached amusement. _'Comforting is not his forte.'_

"You were listening in, weren't you?" Bruce deadpans. His fingers convulse briefly before he shoves his black, bitter hatred aside and tries to be emotionless.

'_I'm always angry.'_

_(It doesn't work.)_

"You were listening to our entire conversation, and now you think you know everything, don't you? You think you know Harry?" He carries on, every softly-spoken word more bitter than the last, no matter how hard he tries to keep a loose, disinterested tone. He seems to fail at everything these days. "Well, let me break it to you, he's twelve. _Twelve_, and he was ripped from his own world and crammed into his own horrific _hell—_" his voice breaks briefly "—he's described it to me, Tony, it's hell. I would rather kill myself than go there."

Vaguely, he realizes that he's referred to Stark by his first name.

Tony is quiet, a rarity, and Bruce takes the time to slow his heartbeat and calm himself. _(So fragile. So pathetic.)_

"I believe you, you know," the genius finally admits. "I mean, we've got Thor and Loki over here, and they've already proved the existence of other dimensions. Natasha's a trained lethal assassin. Barton—codename Hawkeye, you don't know him, but I hacked SHIELD's mainframe—"

—'_Wait, what?'—_

"—and he was one of their top agents before Loki mind-wiped him. Dude could hit a fly from a hundred feet away. And we've got me, a genius who builds advanced weaponry in my free time, and you, who… ah…"

"Who turns into a big green rage monster when I get mad," Bruce finishes. He smiles his self-condescending smile like he always does when he's stuck in an uncomfortable conversation.

Tony bobs his head, as if to say, _'Point.'_

"Well anyway, back to Harry."

Hearing the name, so taboo now, fall easily from Tony's lips makes Bruce wince.

"I was thinking, Banner… maybe we could, you know, investigate?"

"…What?"

"Oh, come _on!_ You're a scientific genius. I'm a scientific _and_ mechanic genius. We've got Thor, who lives on freaking Asgard with his golden faires and pixies and whatever and _magic. _They've got magic, Bruce, I asked him and he said so!"

Bruce remembers, with a painful flash, the hulking blonde man he'd met hours ago, who'd introduced himself as 'Thor Odinson' and nearly attempted to crush the bones of Bruce's hands together with his handshake. Brother to…

His breath catches in his throat, and pale green eyes, cutting and icy and sinister, dart across his vision. Magical scepter. Magic. Magic.

_MAGIC._

"Loki."

"Well, yeah, he lived on Asgard too, but—"

Bruce sits up, yanks off the cuff. The machine wails but he, with years of lab training, disables it quickly. He swings his legs over the side of the bed. The linoleum floor is shockingly cold on his bare feet. He realizes for the first time, that his hospital outfit is composed of loose white shorts and a white T-shirt. Tony rises, grabs his arm. Bruce shakes him off and staggers to the doorway.

Hope—something previously dead and painful—is waking up his stone heart, and he is almost afraid to let it blossom, too afraid that he might watch it die again.

But if this could be Harry's way out… if he could convince Loki…

"Where is Loki?" He grabs Tony's shoulders, shaking him slightly in his urgency. Tony catches on in a millisecond.

"You're not thinking—of course you're thinking that. Bruce, he's a bad, messed up dude—he'll play with your head and use you!"

"I don't care!" Bruce nearly yells. _(He doesn't, not really. What does he have to live for?) _"I don't care," he repeats again, brokenly, and maybe Tony sees the fractures in his eyes, because he nods a second later, sighs, scratches his goatee, and then gives a to-heck-with-it smirk.

"You owe me," Tony says, hooking a finger in his chest_. _"And only if you ask nicely," he adds, and bats his eyelids dramatically.

"When have you ever needed incentive for breaking the rules?" Bruce snorts, experiencing a fleeting shadow of humor. It feels… well, it feels refreshingly alive. Bruce hasn't really felt much of anything outside of hatred since he woke up in the infirmary after passing out in the lab. Tony waggles his eyebrows expectantly.

"_Please." _(And there may or may not have been an impatient, monstrous undertone eerily mirroring his voice, because Tony immediately sets to work putting the security cameras for Loki's cell on a data loop.)

**.**

**Harry**

**.**

As timeless as this plane is, it seems to only take minutes for Harry's strength to dissipate.

The shadowy outline of a body crumbles like dust in wind, the sliced ends of the ropes seamlessly attached to his phantom-fingers unraveling, the blessed legs falling apart.

Harry is dead again.

He is gratefully numb for a while. He doesn't feel regret, or sadness, or bitterness or loneliness. He doesn't even miss Bruce. He just exists, and tries to avoid remembering or feeling.

He thinks to himself that he is finally insane, because he occasionally finds himself experiencing brief hallucination fits. Sometimes he catches glimpses of that beautiful meadow again, but the doppelganger is gone. Harry feels strangely betrayed.

Eventually, he finds himself mechanically tearing down the horrible, horrible words painted across the colorless sky, like a contractor tearing down a 'for sale' sign. How long has it been? Bruce must have certainly read the letter by now.

Have decades passed? Is Bruce dead now? Harry's heart, firmly protected by a layer of ice and locked away, gives a funny twinge.

'_It's better this way,' _he tries to convince himself, _'Bruce is living a good life now. Probably feeling much better health-wise.'_

_(He thinks of Bruce as living because imagining him dead is much too painful, and Harry really doesn't want to feel anything right now.)_

He is vaguely aware that he has been moved around. Sometimes liquid drips onto his surface, liquid that is not grape juice or lemon juice or milk or water or ink, and these liquids smoke and taint his atmosphere, like burning chemicals. Sometimes, when he snaps himself out of his daze, he feels lab-glove covered hands probing his pages. Did Bruce hand him off, then? Is he being experimented on, like the freak that he is?

'_Don't think.'_

Harry casts his emotions into the steel, icy box and locks it tightly. No emotion. Emotions are bad. Emotions lead to hope and hope, as Harry has learned, is a bad thing.

_(He tries not to remember, but he can't help but recall helplessly watching Bruce's panicked inquiries as they carved themselves across his pages, or how he heartbreakingly refused to draw in the ink, or the faint feel of Bruce' calloused hands frantically, __**hysterically**__ attempting to shove the ink in—)_

_(—Silly Bruce, the world doesn't work like that—)_

'_Can I kill myself?' _He disinterestedly considers at some point. A crack appears in the steel box.

'_Am I alive enough to even kill myself?' _Crack, dangerously wide, near the padlock holding the lid shut. The box rattles, the trapped thoughts and emotions desperate to burst free.

Harry quickly goes back to thinking about not-thinking.

**.**

**.**

**A/N: Don't think this is a cliffhanger, or at least, not as bad as some of mine (I mean, you know what's going to happen.) I've got an extended weekend, however, so if I'm not swamped with projects and homework, Ill try to update ASAP. **

**Peace, love, and happiness! If anyone has a prompt idea they'd like me to write for Ink Splatters, go ahead and tell me in a review.**


	11. Loki is a Beast

**A/N: HA! I bet you guys didn't see this coming, huh? :D Enjoy!**

**Warnings: blood, gore, angst (haha DUH!) and sadistic Loki. Violence is actually in this chapter, and major canon changes.**

**IMPORTANT: I've gotten a rather good prompt for Ink Splatters. If anyone really wants me to write something, say it in a review and I'll see if I can make it work. Another chapter for Ink Splatter coming out soon, I think, so be on the lookout.**

**EDIT- Apparently Loki is unable to use magic without his scepter. (?) I'm pretty sure that isn't the way it is in the comics, but oh well. May I graciously remind everyone that this is an AU, meaning Alternate Universe, so yeah, things are different. Personally, I think the fact that Loki can use magic much more capably will make this story more entertaining...**

**.**

**Loki**

**.**

Loki fumes quietly to himself as Widow traipses away through the door, hips swaying and posture drenched in vicious smug victory.

He longs to crush her like the insect that she is, and he will, soon enough…

He smiles grimly to himself, cleansing himself of his pointless rage. All he needs is a Beast, and then everything will be perfect.

Time is running out, however. Widow departs with the intention of preventing Banner's transformation. Loki needs some way to incite the Beast, before he can be properly detained.

He clasps his hands behind his back, breathing the sterilized air through his nose. Humans are ridiculously incompetent. He could teleport himself out of this degrading cell anytime he wished. Fury underestimates him, as does Thor, his fa—Odin, and everyone else in both realms.

He'll show them all exactly what he can do.

The metallic door slides opens unexpectedly. Loki flicks his eyes towards the disturbance, hiding a grim smile as the Beast and the Metal Man enter the viewing platform.

Unbelievable.

It is almost laughable how Fate seems to wish him well. Here approaches the Beast, not even two minutes after Widow's exit, precisely when it is time to push his pawns into play. He extends an inquisitive curl of magic as the pair approaches, noting, with a degree of interest, that the previously draining influence on Dr. Banner is gone. Instead, echoes of dark magic merely _taint_ his presence, faint wisps unraveling at the ends as they hang limply from Dr. Banner's heart.

He does not initiate contact first. Instead, he angles his lean upper body towards the good doctor and his big-mouthed companion, delicately arching a black brow in silent inquiry. Though he is considered a prisoner, Loki makes it clear by his body language that he is the one in control.

Banner wastes no time. Good. Loki knows he does not have long before Widow raises the alarm when she finds the good Doctor out of his precious lab. The Beast strides right up to the see-through barrier separating them, and slams a white-knuckled fist against the surface.

_'Rather out of character for the 'peace-seeking Beast,' _he thinks idly.

"How extensive is your magic?" Banner asks in a deadly, semi-controlled voice. Loki is quite familiar with it. It is the tone he used when he first learned of the reason behind his... adoption.

Loki shares a shark-toothed smile, intrigue and wicked amusement playing across his chiseled features. A quick, widespread scan of the ship with his magic reveals that Widow is still nowhere near the labs, though some activity is forming near that particular level. He has time to indulge in play.

"My _dear_ friend, why do you wish to know?"

"He's not your 'dear friend'," Stark retorts, thumbs in pockets.

'_How childish.'_

"Clever wit, Metal Man," Loki bestows him with a demeaning, sweet smile and flashing eyes, "I see now why you are called a genius."

Stark's face tightens exponentially.

"And he _is_ a dear friend," Loki continues effortlessly, turning his face slightly so that he can see the scowling Dr. Banner out of the corner of his eye. "Friends _help_ each other, after all, and I know that you are in a very great need of help with your… ah… magical problems."

And oh, Banner has no idea how very much indeed he will be assisting Loki in the upcoming minutes…

"You saw the diary," Dr. Banner says shortly. "When you walked by the room. What did you think of it?"

For a moment, Loki is almost startled, having to narrow his thoughts from his massive, detailed plan to the little black object that he recalls being bathed in dark magic.

"Why should I tell you anything?" Loki questions smoothly, a laidback, satisfied smile lifting the corners of his pale lips. "You must know, Doctor, that I will—rightfully—expect something in return."

"That's it, we're done. I told you this was a bad idea," Stark prompts, tugging at Banner's arm to lead him down the metal catwalk. Dr. Banner's eyes meet Loki's. A kind of understanding flares in them.

Loki grins invitingly and nods his head briefly in Stark's direction.

"Tony, leave," Dr. Banner demands in a dull, defeated tone that is utter _music_ to Loki's ears. If only all his opponent were so easy to manipulate.

"What? Why?"

Loki wishes to toss in a few cutting remarks as to exactly why one would find Stark's presence taxing, but he grants the Beast a rare moment of peace, choosing to pace softly around the circular chamber, examining the secure bolts and panels with detached boredom as he has done for the past few hours.

"Just do it. Please."

"What is so bad that I need to leave? What can't I hear?"

"Don't be a child, Tony, you wouldn't understand!"

"So… now I'm too dumb… is that it?"

"_Get out,_ Stark! If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here!" Banner yells, and that captures Loki's interest immediately. He pivots fluidly on his heel, smiling in delight at the tight expression on Stark's face. Banner's back is to him, but Loki's superhuman vision can see the miniscule tremors quivering the shoulders.

The silence is encompassing, heavy and solid. Several expressions that Loki cannot identify ripple across Stark's face, contorting it in quite humorous shapes. Finally, he nods his head in a jerky movement.

"Fine. I see how it is. Enjoy your talk with Reindeer Games."

Oh, how Loki longs to rip out Stark's tongue and choke him with it.

Banner is silent until Stark vacates the premises.

Loki busies himself by dragging his fingers along the glass, creating wavy smudges as he circumvents the perimeter of his cage. Really, he is so _bored_… he might not be able to be patient much longer…

"Can you…" Banner finally begins, turning his upper half. He makes a hidden gesture. Loki follows the direction to the cameras trained on them. "I'm sure Tony is already listening in… _again_…"

(Banner resentfully mutters that last word to himself.)

Loki laughs. A simple snap of his fingers and a little bit of his pliable magic, and the cameras are suddenly viewing a complex illusion, one where Banner simply paces back and forth under Loki's watchful eye, occasionally running a hand through his thick brown hair in mental agony. A buzz rings in the ears of anyone attempting to physically listen in to the conversation. "Your confidence in me is appreciated, Doctor."

Banner blinks rapidly, attempting to cool his nerves. Humans get so riled up, _so_ easily. Loki thinks it an amusing hobby to simply push and push at their strings, like stringed instruments, until they cannot handle the stress anymore and snap with a musical _twang_.

"Now," Loki hooks his fingers together, head tilted. "to business."

Banner gnaws his lip and takes off his glasses, polishing the lenses with the corner of his shirt.

"Do you have experience in void travelling?"

Loki snorts. "_Obviously_, or I wouldn't be here. Come now, Doctor Banner, I presumed you had higher mental faculties than this."

_Push_. Stress growing.

Banner grits his teeth, then controls himself. "Can a pocket dimension be attached to an object?"

"Ah, ah, we haven't decided on terms yet," Loki reminds, smiling pleasantly as he slouches against the glass, forearms caging his bent head. "But based off the information you've just given me, I'm predicting this is about your diary… perhaps, it had a 'pocket dimension' attached to it, and you had to be the inquisitive little worm you are and just…_open it up to take a look_… and received more than you bargained for, hmm?" It would certainly explain the negative energy that had fed off the man like a parasite.

"And then," Loki continues, "you realized that whatever you were summoning from there was hurting you… feeding off you… and now you've come to me, searching for aid to pluck off the leech before it engorges itself with any more blood."

He is aware that the black tendrils are gone, leaving behind only a harmless magical taint on the man—but Banner certainly can't know this. Loki will use the man's magical ignorance to his advantage.

The Beast is silent for a moment. Loki waits to see the look of amazement.

And then Banner starts to laugh softly.

Surprised, Loki's predatory smile fades sharply.

"Oh, good guess… but no, no. I want…" Banner licks his lips, nervous laughter dead in his throat. "I want to bring something _out_ of the diary… permanently."

**.**

**Harry**

**.**

Something is wrong with the diary.

Harry's prison feels… damaged, somehow. Sometimes currents, electrical ones, run through it, and everything seems all ripple-y. Of course, Harry doesn't _feel_ it, but a horrible sense of wrongness fills his soul with dread.

Bruce is gone and he is alone and quite honestly scared and worried and—

'_One day,' _Harry thinks, resorting to his old One Day game in efforts to distract himself. _'One day, I'll eat chocolate and crisps and ice cream and everything and anything I want.'_

This sends him off into a daydream about food. And though Harry doesn't feel hunger, he longs to taste something again, longs to feel texture on his tongue and the ability to sip and chew and swallow; simple motions that he painfully overlooked when he could still perform them.

This train of thought cannot fully tear his attention away from the sense of hands prodding him, moving him, tilting him and flipping through his pages with none of the careful gentleness that Bruce's hands possessed.

'_Bruce_.'

**.**

**Bruce**

**.**

"Surely you know that I want something in return, Doctor?" Loki inquires, spreading his arms beseechingly. Bruce grits his teeth. He does not know how Thor could have ever claimed to share brotherly love with this vile _thing_.

"What do you want?" Bruce asks, and the self-hatred returns tenfold. He knows that this is treason, knows that Stark, who could have become a good friend in time, is likely to be hurt by the outcome. He knows that he will be hunted relentlessly if he goes through with this, if he makes a deal with the devil.

But if he can just bring Harry out of his prison, it will all be worth it—every tortuous, agonizing second will be utterly and completely worth it, and Bruce will not let himself regret a thing. He won't even force Harry to stay by his side in exile. Maybe he'll drop him off at an orphanage, ensure that the boy gets adopted into a loving family. It would be more than Bruce could ever give him.

"How loyal you are, that you would betray your comrades for this… thing… that has captured your attention so completely," Loki remarks softly, examining him in condescending marvel.

Bruce does not say anything. His words are painfully clogged in his throat.

"Allow me to ask you this… what would you do for me, to free this object?"

Bruce curses Loki to every form of hell that he knows about. The delicate cruelty in this one-sided spar of words is breathtaking—that the monstrosity would force him to state all of the heinous things that he would do just for Harry…

"Anything," he manages to grind out. He has to remind himself to withhold his cusses and insults, forced to be content with icy politeness. If he angers Loki, he stands a chance of losing the man's aid.

Loki smiles, taps a long finger against pale lips. "Ah, I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific…"

_How?_ How can he offer something that the man would approve of if he doesn't even _know_ what Loki is planning?

"I'll… I can get you information on anyone on this ship," he offers up lamely.

It's true. He may not be a technical genius like Tony, but he certainly knows his way around computers. And besides, he might be able to twist the data. After all, how would Loki know if he was lying?

"Tempting… but no. Try again."

"I'll…"

He smiles expectantly, and Bruce has a horrible feeling that Loki knows exactly what he is about to say. Maybe he has been drawing out this entire conversation, just waiting to hear the physical defeat staining his voice. The words burn his tongue like bile as he forces them out.

"I'll fight them."

_('Selfish!' A voice screams. 'You would endanger hundreds of lives just for a boy who threw you aside! How can you live with yourself? Can you be even more pathetic?')_

Loki laughs, carelessly sweeping a hand through his styled black locks. His lips part, his chest inflating with air to prepare a statement, but suddenly, he freezes and cocks his head to the side, as if listening intently.

The pale lips curve in victory.

"Oooh… just a bit late, Banner. I'm afraid that my Hawk is here."

Bruce shakes his head softly, utterly perplexed, but Loki turns away, and suddenly, the ship shudders heavily. Bruce hears the sound of an explosion, and the metal catwalk rocks underneath his feet, reminding him vaguely of a nightmare that he can't perfectly recall. He stumbles forward, searching for balance.

The Hulk, who has been listening to his entire conversation, growing steadily more prominent with Bruce's frustration and anger, roars in alarm. The green hands _(flexing muscle, monstrous heaves for breath) _appear over the lips of the ravine, lifting the presence to the forefront of Bruce's mind. He falls to his knees, hands clasped over his ears in a pitiful attempt to block out the primal snarls and growls that echo softly in his ears. His forehead slumps against the cool glass containment unit, the one that he is painfully aware of being crafted specifically for him.

Vaguely, he senses Loki kneeling in front of him, mere inches away, separated by the wall of the chamber.

"How pathetic, really. I expected better wordplay, but," a heavy sigh, "I suppose I can't fault you. If I may add my input, you seem awfully mentally imbalanced."

Bruce tries to block out the words, which should be easily-stifled between his own grunts and the Hulk's wrathful roars, but they drive straight to his being with all the force of a sledgehammer.

Another smaller explosion. The first one must have started off a chain reaction. Alarms begin to wail. Red light flashes in Bruce's face every two seconds, and a piercing caterwaul raises the hair on his arms. The sound is startling, explosive, and it is the last straw that breaks the camel's back. All of the frustration, the emotional pain, the exhaustion of keeping his emotions tightly wound, all of it comes undone and unravels, and Bruce can only watch in despair as everything falls apart.

"You asked me what I wanted," a pale hand presses against the glass. Bruce raises his neck in jerky movements, meeting the monster's narrowed pale green—pale blue?—gaze. "Right now… I want a _Beast_."

Awfully loud snaps and cracks nettle the air, somehow louder than the blaring sirens, as Bruce's body begins to undergo the terrifying change.

"Hah… ngh…" he gasps quietly, twisting unnaturally and falling to the cool floor, fingers trembling spastically. The pain is so intense that he almost can't breathe. A moment later, he feels his insides cave and stretch in sharp spurts, and knows that he really _can't_ breathe, at least not at this moment. Intense regenerative properties heal his torn tissue the second after they are split apart by the forced growth, but that does not dull the intense, concentrated agony that blinds him.

_(A green-skinned body hoists itself over the lip of the gorge. A wide mouth splits open and vocal cords tremble as the creature lets loose a chilling, guttural roar of triumph and wrath.)_

—Bruce shuts his eyes, feeling his mental facilities ebb like the tide, lapped up by something hungry and all-consuming. The cacophony of popping joints and thudding heartbeats and moving bones dulls, grows distant—

_(The Hulk grasps his heart, his mind, and wrenches them away. **"I will protect,"** it snarls, and suddenly it is in his limbs, in his head, and Bruce is the one being cast into the shadowy ravine. "**I smash, I rip, tear Hulk's enemies! No more hurt!"**)_

Bruce slides away.

The Hulk opens its eyes.

**.**

**Loki**

**.**

He teleports from the container***1** as soon as Banner's twitching body falls to the metal floor. He lingers long enough to watch the muscles enlarge themselves to epic proportions, watch a green tint overcome the kind-hearted man's skin, as pleading gasps intermingle with terrifying roars.

But Loki is no fool, and he teleports himself after another second, jumping repeatedly through the fabric of time and space as he makes his way through the ship, first recovering his beautiful, deadly scepter and throwing knives, before continuing on his journey.

One of his jumps land him in a lab.

His booted feet hit the metal floor solidly, his form flickers into corporeality. And around him, men in white HAZMAT suits recoil, varying levels of surprise squeaking from their mouths.

Loki's mouth twists in a grim frown. _'Pathetic.'_

His scepter glows bright azure, hungry for blood. Loki complies eagerly.

His movements are dancelike, meticulous, planned. Not a single step slides out of place. _Thor_ always fought with wild ferocity and brute strength, but _Loki_—everything about him is elegant and efficient.

With his first strike, he impales a man through the heart. The scepter's wicked blade makes a beautifully slick noise as it easily splits flesh. He lifts the impaled figure with superhuman strength, turning and hurling him into one of the other scientists, hard enough that when they hit the wall, he hears bones shatter and heartbeats stutter. Footsteps echo behind him. He twists his upper body and solidly catches the wrist of an attacking scientist, squeezing until the bone cracks and the red, nozzled container***2** falls from his grasp and clanks on the floor. With Loki's free hand, he slips a slim dagger into his palm, deftly spinning it through long fingers. He drives it upward through the ribcage, piercing the heart.

On some level, he can understand why Thor craves battle. The sense of victory is euphoric, and the power surge he feels marks him as untouchable.

He makes short work of the other men, the other worthless _its. _He stands in puddles of crimson blood. The liquid sloshes around the heels of his boots. Fascinating. He wasn't aware that humans could bleed so much.

He gathers himself, preparing to perform that last teleportation onto the surface of the aircraft, and then pauses, noticing a sole object suspended between metal pincers, spread-eagled and pinned with blank pages wide open. Vats of chemicals—their harsh smell assaults his nostrils—stand watch on the lab cart next to it.

Recognition sparks.

Loki grins, and extends a black-gloved hand, a spark of magic snapping the metal contraption at his touch. The diary falls the moment it is released, but he catches it before it can hit the floor.

Turning it over and over in his palm, he drinks in the black leather, the parchment pages, the sheer magic that positively radiates from it. Addictive, promising, it whispers temptations to him, intertwining with his own magic easily, like a puzzle piece plugging itself into the main picture.

**T.M.R.**, the initials stamped into the handsome leather state boldly.

Loki tucks the diary into an inside pocket of his overcoat and teleports to a waiting jet.

**.**

**.**

**A/N:*1-Honestly, why couldn't Loki teleport out of the chamber?! And well, I don't care why, I'm changing it so that Loki was underestimated YET AGAIN and exploited it to the fullest. Dumb Fury.  
**

***2-That was a fire extinguisher, by the way.**

**This may sound silly, but I think I'm losing the ability to tell if I'm writing a cliffhanger ending or not. I mean honestly. This chapter would have sucked if I ended it right when the explosion takes place, right?**

**Canon alterations galore. Look back through the chapter and see if you can spot all of them. **

**IMPORTANT: I always privately thought that Loki's magic was pathetically stupid. I mean honestly, the only thing he did was teleport and the occasional blast through the scepter. BOR-ING. Loki's magic is much more powerful and pliant in this fic than it is in canon Avenger's movie, kind of like Harry's magic but not requiring spellwork.**

**See ya'll soon, hopefully.**


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